>pp."O!d  Sou W-  BOSTO 


WWV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


AND  SO,  BY  THE  RIVERSIDE,  IN  THE  GOLDEN  LIGHT 

OF   THE    AFTERNOON,    THEY    RODE 

FORWARD  TO  BLOIS 


The  White  Plume 


BY 

S.    R.    CROCKETT 


Author  of 

"The  Lilac  Sunbonnet,"  "Joan  of  the  Sword  Hand,'1 
"Strong  Mac,"  "  The  Loves  of  Miss  Anne, '  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 
1906 


Copyright  1906  by 

S.  R.  Crockett 
Published  September,   1906 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN  RISES 1 

I    THE  DAY  OF  BARRICADES 7 

II    CLAIRE    AGNEW 15 

III  THE  PROFESSOR  OF  ELOQUENCE 19 

IV  LITTLE  COLETTE  OF  COLLIOURE 25 

V     THE  SPROUTING  OF  CABBAGE  JOCK 32 

VI     THE  ARCHER'S  CLOAK 38 

VII     THE  GREAT  NAME  OF  GUISE 43 

VIII  THE  GOLDEN  LARK  IN  ORLEANS  TOWN.    48 

IX  THE       REBELLION       OF       HERODIAS'S 

DAUGHTER    55 

X    THE  GOLDEN  DUKE   68 

XI  THE  BEST-KNOWN  FACE  IN  THE  WORLD     77 

XII     THE  WAKING  OF  THE  BEARNAIS 87 

XIII  A  MIDNIGHT  COUNCIL 95 

XIV  EYES  OF  JADE 100 

XV     MISTRESS   CATHERINE 107 

XVI     LA  REINE  MARGOT 116 

XVII     MATE  AND  CHECKMATE 126 

XVIII     THE  APOSTLE  OF  PEACE 131 

XIX     DEATH   WARNINGS 141 

XX     THE  BLOOD  ON  THE  KERCHIEF 150 

XXI     THE  TIGER  IN  THE  FOX'S  TRAP. 155 

XXII  BERAK  THE  LIGHTNING  AND  TOAH  HIS 

DOG    162 

XXIII  THE  THREE  SONS  OF  MADAME  AMELIE.  168 

XXIV  COUSIN  RAPHAEL,  LORD  OF  COLLIOURE  177 
XXV  CLAIRE'S  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  CHOICE.  183 

XXVI     FIRST  COUNCIL  OF  WAR  193 

XXVII  SECOND  COUNCIL  OF  WAR. .                   ....  199 


2129109 


XXVIII  THIRD  COUNCIL  OF  WAR 205 

XXIX     THE  SHUT  HOUSE  IN  MONEY  STREET...  211 

XXX     JEAN-AUX-CHOUX  TAKES  HIS  WAGES..  220 

XXXI     THE  WAY  OF  THE  SALT  MARSHES 226 

XXXII     IN  THEIR  CLUTCHES 233 

XXXIII  AND  ONE  WAS  NOT 242 

XXXIV  BISHOP,   ARCHBISHOP   AND   ANGELICAL 

DOCTOR    248 

XXXV     THE  PLACE  OF  EYES 255 

XXXVI     VALENTINE  LA  NINA 260 

XXXVII     THE  WILD  ANIMAL— WOMAN 269 

XXXVIII     THE   VENGEANCE    OF   VALENTINE   LA 

NINA    276 

XXXIX     SAVED  BY  SULKS 280 

XL     THE  MAS  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 285 

XLI     "AND  LAZARUS  CAME  FORTH  !" 293 

XLII     SECRETS  OF  THE  PRISON  HOUSE 302 

XLIII     IN  TARRAGONA  BAY 310 

XLIV     VALENTINE  AND  HER  VENGEANCE 316 

XLV     VALENTINE  FINDS  CLAIRE  WORTHY....  324 

XLVI     KING  AND  KING'S  DAUGHTER 330 

XL VII     GREAT  LOVE— AND  GREATER 340 

AFTER  THE  CURTAIN..  .  344 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

And  so,  by  the  riverside,  in  the  golden  light 
of  the  afternoon,  they  rode  forward  to 
Blois  Frontispiece 

Speechless  with  amazement,  he  looked  into  the 
wet  eyes  of  ...  the  most  forlorn  maid 
in  France  Page  12 

"Eyes  and  ears,  ears  and  eyes — 

Who  hires  maids,  lacks  never  spies !"  46 

"Have  you  finished  the  work?    Is  he  dead?"          "     160 
Claire  .   .   .  found  herself  in  face  of  Raphael 

Llorient  "     188 

He  bowed  gracefully  to  the  company,   .    .    . 

folded  his  arms,  and  waited  "     238 


BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

THE  night  was  hot  in  Paris.  Breathless  heat  had  brooded 
over  the  city  all  Saturday,  the  23rd  of  August,  1572. 
It  was  the  eve  of  Saint  Bartholomew.  The  bell  of  Saint 
Germain  1'Auxerrois  had  just  clashed  out  the  signal. 
The  Louvre  was  one  blaze  of  lights.  Men  with  lanterns 
and  poleaxes,  as  if  going  to  the  shambles  to  kill  oxen, 
hurried  along  the  streets. 

Only  in  the  houses  in  which  were  lodged  the  great 
Huguenot  gentlemen,  come  to  the  city  for  the  marriage 
of  the  King's  sister  Marguerite  to  the  King  of  Navarre, 
there  were  darkness  and  silence.  None  had  warned  them 
— or,  at  least,  they  had  taken  no  warning.  If  any  sus- 
pected, the  word  of  a  King,  his  sworn  oaths  and  multi- 
tudinous safe-conducts,  lulled  them  back  again  into 
security. 

In  one  chamber,  high  above  the  courtyard,  a  light 
burned  faint  and  steady.  It  was  that  beside  the  bed 
of  the  great  Admiral — Coligny.  He  had  been  treacher- 
ously wounded  by  the  arquebuse  of  one  of  the  guard 
of  the  King's  brother — Monsieur  de  France,  Henry 
Duke  of  Anjou,  afterwards  to  be  known  to  history  as 
Henry  III.,  the  favourite  son  of  Catherine  de  Medici,  the 
cunningest,  and  the  most  ungrateful. 

There  watched  by  that  bedside  many  grave  men,  hold- 
ing grave  discourse  with  each  other  and  with  the  sick 
man,  concerning  the  high  mysteries  of  the  religion,  pure 


2  The  White  Plume 

and  reformed,  of  the  state  of  France,  and  their  hopes 
of  better  days  for  the  Faith  as  it  had  been  delivered  to 
the  saints. 

And  at  the  bed-foot,  with  towels,  bandages,  and  water 
in  a  silver  salver  ready  for  service,  one  young  lad,  a 
student  of  Geneva,  fresh  from  Calvin  and  Beza,  held  his 
tongue  and  opened  wide  his  ears. 

"Pray,  Merlin  de  Vaux,"  said  the  wounded  Admiral 
to  his  aged  pastor,  "pray  for  life  if  such  be  God's  will, 
that  we  may  use  it  better — for  death  (the  which  He  will 
give  us  in  any  case),  that  the  messenger  may  not  find  us 
unprepared." 

And  Merlin  prayed,  the  rest  standing  up,  stern,  grave, 
prepared  men,  with  bowed  and  reverent  heads.  And  the 
Genevan  Scot  thought  most  of  his  dead  master  Calvin, 
whom,  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  he  had  often  seen  so 
stand,  while  his  own  power  rocked  under  him  in  the  city 
of  his  adoption,  and  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  stormed 
about  him  like  hateful  waves  of  the  sea. 

And  somewhat  thuse-wise  prayed  good  Merlin : 

"Thou,  O  Lord,  hast  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 
seats  and  hast  exalted  them  of  low  degree !  Clay  are  all 
men  in  Thy  hands — potter's  clay,  broken  shards  or  ves- 
sels fit  for  altar-service.  Yet  Thou  hast  sent  us,  Thy 
servants,  into  the  wild,  where  we  have  seen  things,  and 
thought  things,  and  given  us  many  warnings,  so  that 
when  Thou  standest  at  the  door  and  knockest,  we  may 
be  ready  for  Thy  coming!" 

Then  at  these  words,  prompt  as  an  echo,  the  house 
leaped  under  the  heavy  noise  of  blows  delivered  upon  the 
outer  door.  And  the  Admiral  of  France,  sitting  up  in 
his  bed,  yet  corpse-pale  from  his  recent  wound,  lifted  his 
hand  and  said,  "  Hush,  be  still — my  Lord  standeth  with- 
out! For  dogs  and  murderers,  false  kings  and  queens 


The  White  Plume  8 

forsworn,  are  but  instruments  in  His  hand.  It  is  God 
who  calls  us  to  His  holy  rest.  For  me,  I  have  long  been 
ready.  I  go  with  no  more  thought  than  if  my  chariot 
waited  me  at  the  door." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  Huguenot  gentlemen  who  were 
grouped  about  his  bed.  This  one  and  that  other  had 
tried  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  assailants  from  the  win- 
dows. But  in  vain.  For  the  door  was  in  a  recess  which 
hid  all  but  the  last  of  the  guard  which  the  King  had  set 
about  the  house. 

"It  is  only  Cosseins  and  his  men,"  said  one ;  "they  will 
hold  us  safe.  We  have  the  King's  word.  He  placed  the 
guard  himself." 

"The  hearts  of  Kings  are  unsearchable,"  said  the  Ad- 
miral. "Put  not  your  trust  in  princes,  but  haste  ye  to 
the  garret,  where  is  a  window  that  gives  upon  the  roof. 
There  is  no  need  that  young  and  valiant  men  should 
perish  with  a  wounded  man  and  an  old.  Go  and  fight 
for  the  remnant  that  shall  be  preserved.  If  it  be  the 
Lord's  will,  He  shall  yet  take  vengeance  by  your  arms !" 

"Ay,  go,"  said  Merlin  the  pastor,  casting  back  his 
white  hair ;  "for  me,  I  am  old,  and  I  stay.  Only  yester- 
night I  saw  an  angel  stand  in  the  sun,  crying  to  all  souls 
that  did  fly  through  the  midst  of  heaven,  'Come,  gather 
yourselves  to  the  Supper  of  the  Great  God.'  But  when, 
thinking  myself  called,  I  would  have  drawn  nearer,  lo! 
between  me  and  the  table  spread,  on  which  was  the  wine 
ready  poured  out,  I  saw  the  Beast,  the  kings  of  the  earth, 
and  their  warriors  gathered  together  to  make  war  against 
the  Lamb.  And  I  heard  a  voice  that  said,  'Nay,  but 
first  thou  must  pass  through  the  portal  of  death  ere  it  be 
given  thee  to  eat  of  the  marriage  supper  of  the  Lamb.' 
So  to  me  it  spake.  The  message  was  not  for  you — ye 
heard  not  the  Voice.  I  will  stay,  for  I  am  weary,  and 


4  The  White  Plume 

am  minded  to  fall  on  sleep — to  find  rest  after  many 
years." 

And  to  this  Pare,  the  wise  and  skilled  surgeon,  who 
was  ever  beloved  by  Admiral  Coligny,  likewise  adhered, 
saying,  "I  have  not  heard  the  voice  of  the  angel.  But  I 
hear  well  enough  that  of  false  Cosseins  who  is  sent  by  the 
King  to  murder  us.  I  have  looked  from  the  window,  and 
though  I  saw  no  vision  of  Beast,  I  saw  clearly  my  Lord 
Duke  of  Guise  stand  without  calling  to  them  to  slay  and 
make  an  end !  So  I  also  will  remain  for  the  love  I  bear 
to  my  lord,  and  because  it  is  my  duty  as  a  good  phy- 
sician so  to  do." 

And  the  lad  John  Stirling,  the  Scot  from  Geneva,  the 
pupil  of  Calvin,  ventured  no  word,  being  young.  But, 
though  the  others  would  have  carried  him  with  them,  he 
shook  them  off,  and  abode  where  he  was.  For  his  vision, 
and  the  purpose  of  it,  were  yet  to  be. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  this  young  man  from 
Geneva  saw  the  killing  of  the  great  Admiral,  and  heard 
the  words  in  which  he  forgave  his  assassins,  telling  them 
how  that  he  was  ready  to  die,  and  that  at  the  most  they 
had  but  shortened  his  life  by  some  short  count  of  days 
or  hours ! 

And  ever  through  the  brief  turmoil  of  the  killing,  the 
voice  of  the  Duke  of  Guise  mounted  impatiently  up  the 
stairway  asking  if  the  Admiral  were  not  yet  dead,  and 
hounding  on  his  dogs  to  make  an  end  of  that  noble 
quarry. 

And  even  when  they  assured  him  he  would  not  believe, 
but  desired  to  look  on  the  face  of  his  own  and  his  father's 
enemy. 

"Open  the  window  and  throw  him  down !"  he  cried. 

So  they  cast  him  out.  But  the  aged  prince,  with  the 
life  still  in  his  body,  clutched  by  instinct  at  the  sill  of  the 


The  White  Plume  5 

window  as  he  fell.  The  young  Duke,  first  ordering  up 
a  couple  of  flambeaux,  deliberately  wiped  the  blood  from 
the  face  of  his  enemy  with  his  kerchief,  and  cried  out, 
"It  is  even  he — I  know  him  well.  So  perish  all  the 
enemies  of  the  King  and  of  the  Catholic  League!" 

Then,  as  his  men  still  called  from  the  window,  the  Duke 
looked  up,  angry  to  be  disturbed  in  his  gloating  over 
his  arch-foe. 

"There  is  also  a  lad  here,"  they  cried,  "one  from 
Geneva,  who  says  he  is  of  the  Admiral's  opinion.  What 
shall  we  do  with  him?" 

"What  is  that  to  me  ?"  said  the  Duke  of  Guise  haughti- 
ly ;  "throw  him  after  his  master." 

And  that  is  the  reason  why  a  certain  John  Stirling, 
a  Scot  of  Geneva,  went  through  life  lame,  wearing  a 
countenance  twisted  like  a  mask  at  a  fair,  and — loved  not 
the  Duke  Henry  of  Guise. 

Moreover,  though  he  saw  the  Duke  spurn  his  dead 
enemy  with  his  foot,  the  boy  felt  not  at  the  time  the  kicks 
with  which  the  scullions  imitated  their  master,  but  lay 
in  a  swoon  on  the  body  of  Coligny.  He  came  to  himself, 
however,  being  cast  aside  as  of  no  account,  when  they 
came  to  drag  the  Admiral's  body  to  the  gallows.  After  a 
while  the  spray  of  a  fountain  that  played  in  the  court- 
yard roused  him.  The  lad  washed  his  hands  and  crawled 
forth.  He  had  lain  all  the  terrible  Sunday  in  the  bloody 
court  of  Coligny's  lodgings,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
trembling  acacias,  which  cast  flecks  of  light  and  dark  on 
the  broad  irregular  stains  of  the  pavement.  But  when 
the  evening  had  come  again,  and  the  angry  voices  shout- 
ing "Kill!  kill!"  had  died  away,  the  lame  boy  hobbled 
painfully  out.  Somehow  or  other  he  passed  through  an 
unguarded  gate,  to  find  himself  sustained  by  a  fellow- 
countryman  carrying  a  child,  a  little  maid  of  four  years. 


6  The  White  Plume 

He  must  have  been  a  strong  man,  that  chance-met  Scot, 
for  he  had  an  arm  to  spare  for  John  Stirling.  He  spoke, 
also,  words  of  hope  and  comfort  to  the  boy.  But  these 
fell  on  deaf  ears.  For  through  the  dull  ache  of  his  bones 
and  the  sharp  nip  of  his  wounds,  undressed  save  for  the 
blood  that  had  dried  upon  them,  the  heart  of  the  cripple 
remained  with  Henry  of  Guise. 

"No,"  he  said  over  and  over  to  himself,  repeating  the 
Duke's  words,  "the  work  is  not  yet  finished!"  It  had, 
indeed,  scarce  begun. 

And  he  registered  a  vow. 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  DAY  OF  BARRICADES 

"The  good  Duke!  The  sweet  Prince!  The  Church's 
pillar!  Guise!  The  good  Guise!" 

Through  the  open  window  the  shouts,  near  and  far, 
invaded  the  quiet  class-room  of  the  Sorbonne.  It  was 
empty,  save  for  the  Professor  of  Eloquence,  one  Dr. 
Anatole  Long,  and  a  certain  vagrant  bluebottle  which, 
with  the  native  perversity  of  its  tribe,  sought  out  the 
only  shut  square  of  glass  (bottle-green,  by  the  way  of 
distinction)  and  buzzed  loudly  all  over  it. 

The  Professor  thumbed  the  discourse  of  the  day  on 
"Peace  as  the  Characteristic  Virtue  of  the  Christian 
Faith."  It  was  a  favourite  lecture  witE  him.  He  had 
used  it  as  exposition,  homily,  exhortation ;  and  had  even 
on  one  occasion  ventured  to  deliver  it  before  the  Vener- 
able the  Conclave  of  the  Sorbonne  itself. 

Professor  Anatole  sighed  as  he  listened  to  the  ringing 
shouts  outside,  the  clatter  of  steel  on  peaceful  educational 
stairways,  and  when  through  the  open  windows,  by  which 
the  early  roses  ought  to  have  been  sending  up  their  good 
smell,  there  came  a  whiff  of  the  reek  of  gunpowder,  the 
excellent  Anatole  felt  that  the  devil  was  loose  indeed. 

It  was  the  great  Day  of  Barricades,  and  all  Paris  was 
in  arms  against  the  King,  royal,  long-descended,  legiti- 
mate— and  worthless. 

"Rebellion — rank  rebellion,"  groaned  the  Professor; 
"no  good  will  come  of  it.  Balafre,  the  Scarred  One, 
will  get  a  dagger  in  his  throat  one  day.  And  then — 


8  The  White  Plume 

then — there  will  be  a  great  killing!  The  King  is  too 
ignorant  to  forgive!" 

"Ah,  what  is  that?" 

A  noise  of  guns  crashed,  spat,  and  roared  beneath  the 
window  which  gave  on  to  the  narrow  street.  Professor 
Anatole  rose  hastily  and  went  to  the  casement,  worried  a 
moment  with  the  bar-fastening  (for  the  window  on  that 
side  was  never  unhasped),  opened  it,  and  looked  forth. 
Little  darting,  shifting  groups  of  lads  in  their  dingy 
student  cloaks  were  defending  themselves  as  best  they 
might  against  a  detachment  of  the  King's  Royal  Swiss, 
who,  on  the  march  from  one  part  of  the  city  to  another, 
had  been  surprised  at  the  head  of  the  narrow  Street  of 
the  University. 

An  old  man  had  somehow  been  knocked  down.  His 
companion,  a  slim  youth  in  a  long,  black  cape,  knelt  and 
tried  to  hold  up  the  falling  head.  The  white  beard, 
streaked  with  dark  stains,  lay  across  his  knees.  Now  the 
Professor  of  Eloquence,  though  he  lectured  by  preference 
concerning  the  virtues  of  peace,  thought  that  there  were 
limits  even  to  these;  so,  grasping  his  staff,  which  had 
a  sword  concealed  in  the  handle,  of  cunning  Venice 
work,  ran  downstairs,  and  so  found  himself  out  on  the 
street. 

In  that  short  period  all  was  changed.  The  Royal 
Swiss  had  moved  on.  The  battling  clerks  had  also 
vanished.  The  narrow  Street  of  the  University  was 
blank  save  for  the  old  man  who  lay  there  wounded  on 
the  little,  knobbed  cobble-stones,  and  the  slim,  cloaked 
youth  bending  over  him. 

Professor  Anatole  does  not  remember  clearly  what 
followed.  Certain  it  is  that  he  and  the  lad  must  have 
carried  the  wounded  man  up  the  narrow  stair.  For  when 
Anatole  came  a  little  to  himself  they  were,  all  the  three 


The  White  Plume  9 

of  them,  in  his  wide,  bare  attiring-chamber,  from  which 
it  was  his  custom  to  issue  forth,  gowned  and  solemn,  in 
the  midst  of  an  admiring  hush,  with  the  roll  of  his  daily 
lecture  clasped  in  his  right  hand,  while  he  upheld  the 
long  and  troublesome  academic  skirts  with  the  other. 

But  now,  all  suddenly,  among  these  familiar  cupboards 
and  books  of  reference,  he  found  himself  with  a  dying 
man — or  rather,  as  it  seemed,  a  man  already  dead.  And, 
what  troubled  him  far  more,  with  a  lad  whose  long  hair, 
becoming  loosened,  floated  down  upon  his  shoulders, 
while  he  wept  long  and  continuously,  "Oh — oh — oh — my 
father !"  sobbing  from  the  top  of  his  throat. 

Now  Professor  Anatole  was  a  wise  man,  a  philosopher 
even.  It  was  the  day  of  mignons.  The  word  was 
invented  then.  King  Henry  III.  had  always  half-a-dozen 
or  so,  not  counting  D'Epernon  and  La  Joyeuse.  That 
might  account  for  the  long  hair.  But  even  a  mlgnon 
would  not  have  cried  "Ah — ah — ah!"  in  quick,  rending 
sobs  from  the  chest  and  diaphragm. 

He,  Anatole  Long,  Professor  of  Eloquence  at  the 
Sorbonne,  was  in  presence  of  a  great  difficulty — the 
greatest  of  his  life.  There  was  a  dead  man  in  his  robing- 
room,  and  a  girl  with  long  hair,  who  wept  in  tremulous 
contralto. 

What  if  some  of  his  students  were  minded  to  come 
back !  A  terrible  thought !  But  there  was  small  fear  of 
that.  The  rascals  were  all  out  shouting  for  the  Duke  of 
Guise  and  helping  to  build  the  great  barricades  which 
shut  in  the  Swiss  like  rats  in  a  trap.  They  were 
Leaguers  to  a  man,  these  Sorbonne  students — for  fun, 
however,  not  from  devotion. 

Yet  when  he  went  back  to  the  big  empty  class-room  to 
bethink  himself  a  little  (it  was  a  good  twenty  years  since 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  this  sort  of  thing),  lo!  there 


10  The  White  Plume 

were  two  young  fellows  rooting  about  among  the  coats 
and  cloaks,  from  the  midst  of  which  he  had  taken  his 
sword-cane  when  he  ran  downstairs. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  he  cried,  with  a  sudden 
quick  anger,  as  if  students  of  eloquence  had  no  right  in 
the  class-room  of  their  own  Professor.  "Answer  me, 
you,  Guy  Launay,  and  you,  John  d'Albret !" 

"We  are  looking  for "  began  Guy  Launay,  the  son 

of  the  ex-Provost  of  the  Merchants,  a  dour,  dark  clod  of 
a  lad,  with  the  fingers  of  a  swordsman  and  the  muscles  of 
a  wrestler.  He  was  going  to  say  (what  was  the  truth) 
that  they  had  come  up  to  look  for  the  Professor's  sword- 
cane,  which  they  judged  might  be  useful  against  the 
King's  folk,  when,  of  instinct  far  more  fine,  his  com- 
panion, called  the  Abbe  John,  nephew  of  the  great 
Leaguer  Cardinal,  stopped  him  with  a  swift  sidelong 
drive  of  the  elbow  in  the  ribs,  which  winded  him 
completely. 

"We  have  come  to  listen  to  your  lecture,  master!"  he 
said,  bowing  low.  "We  are  sorry  indeed  to  be  a  little 
late.  But  getting  entangled  in  the  press,  it  was  impos- 
sible for  us  to  arrive  sooner.  We  ask  your  pardon,  dear 
master !" 

Under  his  breath  the  Abbe  John  confided  to  his  com- 
panion, "Evidently  old  Blessings-of-Peace  has  carried 
that  sword-stick  off  into  his  retiring-room  for  safety. 
Let  him  begin  his  lecture.  Then  in  five  minutes  he  will 
forget  about  everything  else,  and  you  or  I  will  sneak  in 
and  bag  it !" 

"You — you  mean,"  said  Launay ;  "I  should  move  about 
as  silently  as  a  bullock  on  a  pontoon  bridge !" 

With  his  eye  ever  on  the  carefully-shut  door  of  his 
private  chamber,  and  his  ear  cocked  for  the  sound  of 
sobbing,  the  Professor  moved  slowly  to  his  reading- 


The  White  Plume  11 

desk.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  regretted  the 
presence  of  students  in  the  class-room.  Why — why 
could  they  not  have  stayed  away  and  dethroned  anointed 
kings,  and  set  up  most  Catholic  princes,  and  fought  for 
the  Holy  League  and  the  pleasure  of  clouting  heads? 
That  was  what  students  of  the  Sorbonne  seemed  to  be 
for  in  these  latter  days.  But  to  come  here,  at  the  proper 
hour,  to  take  notes  of  a  lecture  on  the  Blessings  of 
Peace,  with  the  gunshots  popping  outside,  and  dead  men 
— no,  somehow  he  did  not  care  to  think  of  dead  men,  nor 
of  weeping  girls  either!  So  at  this  point  he  walked 
solemnly  across  the  uneven  floor  and  turned  the  key  in 
the  door  of  his  robing-room. 

Instantly  the  elbow  of  Guy  Launay  sought  the  side  of 
the  Abbe  John,  called  alternatively  the  Spaniard,  and 
made  him  gasp. 

"D'ye  see  that?"  whispered  Guy,  "the  old  rascal  has 
locked  the  door.  He  suspects.  Come,  we  may  as  well 
trip  it.  We  shan't  get  either  the  sword-cane  nor  yet  the 
pistols  and  bullets  on  the  top  of  the  guard-robe.  My 
milk-brother,  Stephen,  saw  them  there  when  he  took  his 
week  of  chamber-valeting  Old  Peace-with-Honour !" 

"Screw  up  your  mouth — tight!"  said  the  Abbe  John 
politely;  "a  deal  of  nonsense  will  get  spread  about 
otherwise.  I  will  attend  to  everything  in  the  room  of 
Old  Blessings-of -Peace !" 

"You !" 

"Yes,  I — wait  and  see.  Get  out  your  tablets  and  take 
notes — spread  your  elbows,  man!  Do  as  I  do,  and  the 
blessings  of  Saint  Nicholas  of  Padua  be  upon  all 
thieves  and  rascals — of  whom  we  are  two  choice  speci- 
mens !" 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Spaniard!"  spluttered  the  other, 
having  accidentally  sucked  the  wrong  end  of  his  pen  \ 


12  The  White  Plume 

"my  uncle  is  not  a  cardinal,  and  as  to  my  father 

"He  sells  hanks  of  yarn,  and  cheats  in  the  measure- 
ment !" 

"I  dare  you  to  say  so,  you  left-hand  prince,  you  grease- 
spot  on  the  cardinal's  purple — you — 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  Abbe  John  calmly;  "to- 
morrow I  will  give  you  thwacks  when  and  where  you 
like.  But  now  listen,  mark,  learn,  and  in  any  case  keep 
our  good  Master  Anatole  from  so  frequently  glancing  at 
that  door.  One  would  think  he  had  the  devil  shut  up 
within !" 

"Impossible — quite  impossible!  he  is  loose  and  exceed- 
ingly busy  outside  there!  Listen  to  the  shots,"  said 
Guy,  inclining  an  ear  to  the  window. 

Crack — crack!    Bang! 

The  windows  rattled. 

"Hurrah  for  the  People's  Duke !  Down  with  the  King ! 
Death  to  the  Huguenots! — to  the  Barbets! — to  the 
English!  Death!  Death!  Death!" 

"Lively  down  there — I  wish  we  were  up  and  away!" 
mourned  the  son  of  the  ex-Provost  of  the  Merchants, 
"but  without  arms  and  ammunition,  what  can  fellows 
do?" 

"As  sayeth  the  Wise  Man" — the  voice  of  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Eloquence  began  to  quicken  into  its  stride — 
"  'all  her  main  roads  are  pleasant  roads ;  and  her  very 
by-paths,  her  sentiers,  lead  to  peace !' >: 

"If  we  could  only  get  at  those  pistols  and  things !" 
murmured  Guy  Launay.  "I  wager  you  a  groat  that  the 
old  man  is  mistaken!  Oh,  just  hearken  to  them  outside 
there,  will  you?  Peace  is  a  chafing-dish.  War  is  the 
great  sport !" 

"Down  with  the  King!  Bring  along  those  chains  for 
the  barricade !  Students  to  the  rescue !" 


SPEECHLESS  WITH  AMAZEMENT,   HE   LOOKED  INTO 

THE    WET    EYES    OF    ...    THE    MOST 

FORLORN   MAID  IN   FRANCE 


The  White  Plume  13 

Then  came  up  to  their  ears  the  blithe  marching  song, 
the  time  strongly  marked: 

"  The  Guises  are  good  men,  good  men, 
The  Cardinal,  and  Henry,  and  Mayenne,  Mayenne  ! 
And  we'll  fight  till  all  be  grey — 
The  Valois  at  our  feet  to-day, 
And  in  his  grave  the  Bearnais — 
Our  chief  has  come — the  Balafr6  !  " 

"Keys  of  Saint  Peter!"  moaned  Guy  Launay,  "I  can- 
not stand  this.  I  am  going  down,  though  I  have  no  better 
weapon  than  a  barrel-stave." 

And  he  hummed,  rapping  on  the  inscribed  and  whittled 
bench  with  his  fingers,  the  refrain  of  the  famous  League 
song: 

"  For  we'll  fight  till  all  be  grey— 
The  Valois  is  at  our  feet  to-day, 
In  his  deep  grave  the  Bearnais — 
Our  chief  has  come — the  Balafr6  !  '* 

But  Professor  Anatole  did  not  hear.  He  was  in  the 
whirl  of  his  exposition  of  the  blessings  of  universal  peace. 
The  Church  had  always  brought  a  sword,  and  would  to 
the  end.  But  Philosophy,  Divine  Philosophy,  which  was 
what  Solomon  meant — peace  was  within  her  walls, 
prosperity,  etc. 

And  by  this  time  the  Spaniard,  otherwise  the  Abbe 
John,  was  crawling  stealthily  towards  the  locked  door. 
Guy  Launay,  on  the  contrary,  was  breathing  hard, 
rustling  leaves,  taking  notes  for  two,  both  elbows  work- 
ing. The  Master  was  in  the  full  rush  of  his  discourse. 
He  saw  nothing,  knew  nothing.  He  had  forgotten  the 
robing-room  in  the  affirmation  that,  "In  the  midst  of 
turmoil,  the  truly  philosophic  may,  and  often  does,  pre- 


14  The  White  Plume 

serve  the  true  peace — the  truest  of  all,  peace  of  mind, 
peace  of  conscience." 

Bang! 

There  was  a  tremendous  explosion  immediately  under 
the  window. 

"The  King's  men  blowing  up  a  barricade!"  thought 
the  Abbe  John,  with  his  hand  on  the  great  flat  key,  but 
drawing  back  a  little.  "If  that  does  not  wake  him  up, 
nothing  will." 

But  the  gentle,  even  voice  went  on,  triumphing — the 
periods  so  familiar  to  the  lecturer  ringing  out  more 
clearly  than  ever.  "Wars  shall  cease  only  when  Wisdom, 
which  is  God,  shall  prevail.  Philosophy  is  at  one  with 
Religion.  The  Thousand  Years  shall  come  a  thousand 
times  over  and  on  the  earth  shall  reign 

The  key  gritted  in  the  lock.  The  Abbe  John  disap- 
peared behind  the  heavy  curtain  which  hid  the  door  of 
the  robing-room. 

The  next  moment  he  found  himself  in  the  presence  of 
a  man,  lying  rigidly  on  the  Professor's  table,  all  among 
the  books  and  papers,  and  of  the  fairest  young  girl  the 
Abbe  John  had  ever  seen,  gently  closing  eyes  which 
would  never  more  look  out  upon  the  world. 

Within,  the  Professor's  voice  droned  on,  discoursing 
of  peace,  righteousness,  and  eternal  law.  The  great  Day 
of  the  Barricades  rattled  and  thundered  without.  Acrid 
blasts  of  sulphurous  reek  drove  into  the  quiet  room,  and 
the  Abbe  John,  speechless  with  amazement,  looked  into 
the  wet  eyes  of  this  wonderful  vision — the  purest,  the 
loveliest,  the  most  forlorn  maid  in  France. 


CHAPTER  II 
CLAIRE  AGNEW 

A  LONG  moment  they  stood  gazing  at  each  other,  the 
girl  and  the  Abbe  John.  They  might  have  been  sister 
and  brother.  There  was  the  same  dark  clustering  hair, 
close-gripped  in  love-locks  to  the  head.  The  same 
large,  dark,  wide-pupilled  eyes  looked  each  into  each  as 
they  stood  at  gaze  across  the  dead  man. 

For  a  moment  nothing  was  said,  but  the  Abbe  John  re- 
covered himself  first. 

"He  knows  you  are  here?"  he  questioned,  jerking  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"Who  ?"    The  girl  flung  the  question  back. 

"Our  Professor  of  Eloquence,  the  Doctor  Anatole 
Long?" 

"Aye,  surely,"  said  the  girl;  "he  it  was  brought  us 
hither." 

He  pointed  to  the  dead  man. 

"Your  father?" 

The  girl  put  her  hand  to  her  breast  and  sighed  a 
strange  piteous  affirmative,  yet  with  a  certain  reserve  in 
it  also. 

"What  was  he,  and  how  came  you  here?" 

She  looked  at  him.  He  wore  the  semi-churchly  dress 
of  a  scholar  of  the  University.  But  youth  and  truth 
vouched  for  him,  shining  from  his  eyes.  So,  at  least, 
she  thought.  Besides,  this  girl  was  in  great  perplex- 

ity. 

"I  am  Claire,"  she  said,  "the  daughter  of  him  who 


16  The  White  Plume 

was  Francis  Agnew,  secret  agent  from  the  King  of 
Scots  to  his  brother  of  Navarre !" 

"A  heretic,  then!"  He  fell  back  a  step.  "An  agent 
of  the  Bearnais !" 

The  girl  said  nothing.  She  had  not  even  heard  him. 
She  was  bending  over  her  father  and  sobbing  quietly. 

"A  Huguenot,"  muttered  the  young  Leaguer,  "an 
agent  of  the  Accursed !" 

He  kept  on  watching  her.  There  was  a  soft  delicate 
turn  of  the  chin,  childish,  almost  babyish,  which  made 
the  heart  within  him  like  water. 

"Chut!"  he  said,  "what  I  have  now  to  do  is  to  get 
rid  of  that  ramping  steer  of  a  Launay  out  there.  He 
and  his  blanket-vending  father  must  not  hear  of  this !" 

He  went  out  quietly,  sinking  noiselessly  to  the  ground 
behind  the  arras  of  the  door,  and  emerging  again,  as 
into  another  world,  amid  the  hum  and  mutter  of  pro- 
fessorial argument. 

"All  this,"  remarked  Doctor  Anatole,  flapping  his 
little  green-covered  pulpit  with  his  left  hand,  "is  tem- 
porary, passing.  The  clouds  in  the  sky  are  not  more 
fleeting  than " 

"Guise!  Guise!  The  good  Guise!  Our  Prince  has 
come,  and  all  will  now  be  well !" 

The  street  below  spoke,  and  from  afar,  mingling  with 
scattered  shots  which  told  the  fate  of  some  doomed 
Swiss,  he  heard  the  chorus  of  the  Leaguers'  song: 

"  The  Cardinal,  and  Henry,  and  Mayenne,  Mayenne  ! 
We  will  fight  till  all  be  grey — 
Put  Valois  'neath  our  feet  to-day, 
Deep  in  his  grave  the  Bearnais — 
Our  chief  has  come — the  Balafre  !  " 

The  Abbe  John  recovered  his  place,  unseen  by  the 
Professor.  He  was  pale,  his  cloak  dusty  with  the 


The  White  Plume  17 

wriggling  he  had  done  under  the  benches.  He  was  dif- 
ferent also.  He  had  been  a  furious  Leaguer.  He  had 
shouted  for  Guise.  He  had  come  up  the  stairs  to  seek 
for  weapons  wherewith  to  fight  for  that  Sole  Pillar  of 
Holy  Church. 

"Well?"  said  Guy  Launay,  looking  sideways  at  him. 

"Well,  what?"  growled  the  Abbe  John,  most  uncleric- 
ally.  He  had  indeed  no  right  to  the  title,  save  that  his 
uncle  was  a  cardinal,  and  he  looked  to  be  one  himself 
some  day — that  is,  if  the  influence  of  his  family  held. 
But  in  these  times  credit  was  such  a  brittle  article. 

"Did  you  get  the  weapons?"  snapped  his  friend — 
"the  pistol,  the  sword-cane?  You  have  been  long  enough 
about  it.  I  have  worn  my  pencil  to  a  stub !" 

The  Abbe  John  had  intended  to  lie.  But  somehow 
when  he  thought  of  the  clear  dark  eyes  wet  with  tears, 
and  the  dead  Huguenot,  within  there — somehow  he  could 
not. 

Instead  he  blurted  out  the  truth. 

"I  forgot  all  about  them!"  he  said. 

The  son  of  the  ex-Provost  of  the  Merchants  looked  at 
him  once,  furiously. 

"I  think  you  are  mad !"  he  said. 

"So  do  I!"  said  the  Abbe  John,  nodding  blandly. 

"Well,  what  is  the  reason  of  it?"  grumbled  the  other. 
"What  has  Old  Blessings-of -Peace  got  in  there — a  hid- 
den treasure  or  a  pretty  wench?  By  the  milk-pails 
o'  Mary,  I  will  go  and  see  for  myself !" 

"Stop,"  said  the  Abbe  John,  with  sudden  heat,  "no 
more  spying!  I  am  sick  of  it.  Let  us  go  and  get 
weapons  at  the  Hotel  of  the  Duke  of  Guise,  if  you  like 
• — but  respect  the  privacy  of  our  master — our  good  and 
kind  master !" 

Guy  Launay  eyed  his  companion  a  moment  murkily. 


18  The  White  Plume 

He  gritted  his  teeth  viciously,  as  if  he  could  gladly  have 
bitten  a  piece  out  of  his  arm.  He  showed  large  flat 
teeth  when  angry,  for  all  the  world  like  a  bad-tempered 
horse. 

"Stop  and  take  notes  on  the  comforts  of  philosophy 
by  yourself,"  he  said;  "I  am  off  to  do  my  duty  like  a 
man.  You  have  turned  soft  at  the  moment  of  action, 
like  all  Spaniards — all  the  breed  are  alike,  you  and  your 
master,  the  Demon  of  the  South !" 

"You  lie!" 

"And  you !    But  wait  till  to-morrow !" 

"Ah,"  cried  the  Abbe  John,  "like  all  Frenchmen,  you 
would  put  off  a  fight  till  to-morrow.  Come  out  now,  and 
I  will  break  your  head  with  a  quarter-staff !" 

"Pshaw!"  quoth  Guy  Launay,  "quarter-staffs  indeed, 
on  the  Day  of  Barricades.  I  am  off  to  kill  a  King's  man, 
or  to  help  spit  a  Huguenot !" 

And  the  next  moment  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  had 
but  one  auditor. 


CHAPTER   III 
THE  PROFESSOR   OF  ELOQUENCE 

"MY  name,"  she  said,  "is  Claire  Agnew.  But  since  we 
lived  long  in  Provence  and  Spanish  Roussillon,  my 
father,  being  learned  in  that  speech,  called  me  most  often 
Euphrasia  or  Euphra,  being,  as  he  said,  'the  light  of 
his  eyes' !" 

"Then  you  are  English,  and  a  heretic  ?"  said  the  young 
man,  while  the  Professor,  having  discharged  his  papers 
into  the  drawer  of  a  cabinet,  already  full  and  running 
over,  bent  his  ear  to  the  breast  of  the  old  man. 

"I  am  Scottish,  and  you  the  heretic?"  said  the  girl, 
with  spirit. 

"I  am  no  heretic — I  am  of  the  Faith !"  said  the  young 
man. 

"The  Faith  of  treaty-breakers  and  murderers !" 

She  knit  her  fingers  and  looked  at  him  defiantly — 
perhaps,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  more  in  anger  than 
in  sorrow. 

The  voice  of  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  broke  in  upon 
them. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "you  have  surprised  a  secret 
which  is  not  mine — much  less  yours.  Be  off  at  once  to 
your  uncle,  the  Cardinal  d'Albret,  and  to  your  friend's 
father  Launay,  the  ex-Provost  of  the  Merchants.  Get 
three  passports — for  me,  for  my  daughter  Claire,  and — 
for  my  nephew — 

"What  nephew?"  said  the  youth,  rubbing  the  ear  which 
the  Professor  had  pulled. 


20  The  White  Plume 

"One  I  have  adopted  recently !"  said  the  Professor 
gravely,  "  a  certain  worthless  loon,  who  came  up  hither 
seeking  what  was  not  his — a  sword-cane  and  a  pistol — 
and  who  found  that  which,  God  knows,  belongs  to  neither 
of  us — an  uncomfortable  possession  in  these  days — a 
Huguenot  maiden  with  eyes  like  a  flame  of  fire !" 

"They  are  more  like  pansies !"  said  the  young  man 
doggedly. 

"How  do  you  know?  How  dare  you?  Is  she  not  my 
daughter?" 

"Aye,  master,  she  is,  of  course,  your  daughter  if  you 
say  so" — the  voice  of  the  Abbe  John  was  uncertain.  He 
did  not  like  the  Professor  claiming  so  much — and  he 
beginning  to  be  bald  too.  What  have  bald  pates  to  do 
with  pretty  young  girls?  Even  thus  he  growled  low  to 
himself. 

"Eh,  what's  that?"  the  Professor  caught  him  up.  "Be 
off — it  is  to  save  her  life,  and  you  are  a  young  blade 
who  should  never  refuse  an  adventure,  specially  when  at 
last  it  gives  you  a  chance  to  be  taken  for  the  relative  of 
a  respectable  man " 

"And  the  cousin  of  this  fair  maid,  your — daughter?" 

"Well,  and  have  I  not  a  good  right  to  a  daughter  of 
my  own?  Once  on  a  day  I  was  married,  bonds  and 
bands,  parchments  and  paperings.  For  ten  years  I 
endured  my  pain.  Well  might  I  have  had  a  daughter, 
and  of  her  age  too,  had  it  not  been  my  hard  lot  to  wed  a 
woman  without  bowels  —  flint-heart  —  double-tongue 


"I  wager  it  was  these  ten  years  that  taught  him  his 
eloquence !"  said  the  young  man  under  his  breath.  But 
aloud  he  answered  otherwise,  for  the  young  girl  had 
withdrawn  into  the  small  ad j  acent  piece,  leaving  the  men 
to  talk. 


The  White  Plume  21 

"And  this !"  said  the  Abbe  John,  indicating  the  dead 
man — "what  are  we  to  do  with  this?" 

The  face  of  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  cleared. 

"Luckily  we  are  in  a  place  where  such  accidents  can 
easily  be  accounted  for.  In  a  twinkle  I  will  summon  the 
servitors.  They  will  find  League  emblems  and  holy 
crosses  all  about  him,  candles  burning  at  his  head  and 
feet.  The  fight  still  rumbles  without.  It  is  but  one 
more  good  Guisard  gone  to  his  account,  whom  I  brought 
hither  out  of  my  love  for  the  Cause,  and  that  the  Sor- 
bonne  might  not  be  compromised." 

Almost  for  the  first  time  the  student  looked  at  his 
master  with  admiration. 

"Your  love  for  the  Cause "  he  said.  "Why,  all 

the  world  knows  that  you  alone  voted  against  the  resolu- 
tion of  the  assembled  Sorbonne  that  it  was  lawful  to 
depose  a  king  who  refused  to  do  his  duty  in  persecuting 
heretics !" 

"I  have  repented-,"  said  the  Professor  of  Eloquence — 
"deeply  and  sorely  repented.  Surely,  even  in  the 
theology  of  the  Sorbonne,  there  is  place  for  repentance  ?" 

"Place  indeed,"  answered  the  young  man  boldly,  "but 
the  time  is,  perhaps,  a  little  ill-chosen." 

However  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  went  on  without 
heeding  him. 

"And  in  so  far  as  this  girl's  goodwill  is  concerned,  let 
that  be  your  part  of  the  work.  Her  father,  though  a 
heretic,  must  be  interred  as  a  son  of  the  Church.  It  is 
the  only  course  which  will  explain  a  dead  man  among 
the  themes  in  my  robing-room.  He  has  been  in  rebellion 
against  the  King — but  there  is  none  to  say  against  which 
king !  It  does  not  need  great  wisdom  to  know  that 
in  Paris  to-day,  and  especially  in  the  Sorbonne,  to  die 
fighting  against  the  Lord's  Anointed,  and  for  the  Duke 


22  The  White  Plume 

of  Guise,  is  to  receive  the  saint's  aureole  without  ever  a 
devil's  advocate  to  say  you  nay !" 

"It  is  well  known,"  commented  the  youth,  "that  you 
were  ever  of  the  King's  party — a  Politique !  It  was  even 
spoken  of  in  the  Council  of  the  Sixteen." 

"Do  you  go  seek  your  cousin,  sirrah,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Eloquence,  "and  with  her  be  very  politic 
indeed!" 

The  Abbe  John  accepted  the  duty  indicated  with  brisk 
alertness. 

"Mind  you,  no  love-making,"  said  Dr.  Anatole.  "That 
would  be  not  only  misplaced,  but  also  exceedingly  ill- 
suited  to  your  ecclesiastical  pretensions." 

"Hear  me  before  we  go  farther,"  cried  the  Abbe  John ; 
"I  am  a  good  Leaguer  and  a  good  Catholic,  but  I 
will  not  have  it  said  that  I  am  a  churchman  just  because 
my  uncle  is !" 

The  Professor  paid  no  heed.  Instead,  he  went  to  a 
corner  cupboard  of  ornate  Spanish  mahogany  carved  into 
dragons  and  gargoyles,  and  from  it  he  took  the  medal 
of  the  League,  the  portraits  of  the  Duke  of  Guise  and 
of  the  King  of  Spain.  Then,  tying  a  white  armlet  of 
Alen9on  lace  about  the  dead  man's  wrist,  he  bade  the 
Abbe  John  summon  the  servants. 

The  Abbe  John  stood  open-mouthed  watching  the 
preparations. 

"I  had  always  thought "  he  began. 

"Of  course  you  had — of  course  you  did.  You  all  do, 
you  half-baked  babies !  You  always  take  your  instructors 
for  ancient  innocents,  purblind,  adder-deaf  mumblers  of 
platitudes.  But  you  are  wrong — you  and  Guy  Launay, 
and  all  your  like.  A  good  professor  is  a  man  who  has 
been  a  good  student,  who  remembers  the  tricks  of  the 
animal,  and  is  all  ready  fixed  for  them  before  the  whisper 


The  White  Plume  23 

has  run  along  Bench  One !  I  will  conduct  this  necessary 
funeral  in  person.  Please  do  you,  since  you  can  be  of  no 
other  use,  make  it  your  business  to  explain  matters  to 


i" 


your  cousin 

The  servants  of  the  Sorbonne,  Leaguers  to  a  man, 
at  last  appeared,  trickling  upstairs  half  reluctantly.  The 
Professor  of  Eloquence  met  them  at  the  door  with  a 
grave  face. 

"This  man  has  been  slain — accidentally,"  he  began,  "I 
believe  by  the  King's  Swiss.  I  have  brought  him  here 
myself.  It  will  be  as  well  for  the  Sorbonne  that  these 
matters  go  no  further — good  for  you,  as  well  as  for 
myself,  and  for  all  the  college  of  the  Doctors,  after  the 
resolution  of  which  we  know.  Let  Father  Gontier  be 
called,  and  the  dead  man  interred  with  all  due  ceremony 
in  the  private  sepulchre  of  the  faculty." 

When  the  servitors  of  the  Sorbonne  had  seen  the  half- 
hidden  wristlet  of  the  good  Leaguer,  the  medals  of  the 
two  great  chiefs,  they  understood.  After  all,  the  King 
might  win — and  then — men  might  stay  or  flee,  Guises 
rise  and  set,  but  it  was  clearly  the  destiny  of  the  Sor- 
bonne to  go  on  forever,  if  only  to  afford  them  a  means 
of  livelihood. 

They  were  men  with  families,  and  the  advantage  of 
keeping  a  still  tongue  in  each  several  head  had  often 
been  pointed  out  to  them.  It  was,  indeed,  a  condition  of 
their  service  at  Sorbonne. 

So  the  funeral  of  Francis  the  Scot  took  place  in  the 
strictest  secrecy.  As  a  mourner,  close  beside  the  bier, 
knelt  the  niece  of  good  Dr.  Anatole,  the  Professor  of 
Eloquence.  It  was  not  thought  unusual,  either  that  Doc- 
tors of  Sorbonne  should  have  nieces,  or  that  they 
should  be  overcome  at  the  sight  of  war  and  dead  men. 
Grave  doctors'  nieces  were  almost  proverbially  tender- 


24  The  White  Plume 

hearted.  The  Abbe  John,  a  cousin  by  the  mother's 
side,  and  near  relative  of  the  great  Leaguer  Cardinal, 
ordered,  explained,  and  comforted,  according  as  he  had 
to  do  with  Sorbonne  servitors,  Jesuit  fathers,  or  weep- 
ing girls. 
He  found  himself  in  his  element,  this  Abbe  John. 


CHAPTER    IV 
LITTLE   COLETTE    OF   COLLIOURE 

WHILE  the  Abbe  John  was  gone  to  seek  the  passports 
from  his  uncle,  and  from  what  remained  of  royal  author- 
ity in  a  city  now  wholly  given  over  to  the  League, 
Anatole  Long,  college  professor,  explained  matters  to 
his  new  charge. 

"You  saw  but  little  of  your  father,  I  take  it?"  he  be- 
gan gently.  The  Sorbonnist  was  a  large-framed,  up- 
standing man,  with  an  easy-going  face,  and  manners 
which  could  be  velvet  soft  or  trampling,  according  to 
circumstances.  They  were  generally  the  former. 

"There  is  no  use  in  wasting  good  anger,"  he  would  say, 
"at  least,  on  a  pack  of  cublings." 

He  was  referring  to  the  young  men  of  his  class,  who 
thought  themselves  Platos  for  wisdom  and  Kings  of 
Navarre  in  experience.  For  though  they  cursed  "the 
Bearnais"  in  their  songs  and  causeway-side  shoutings,  in 
their  hearts  they  thought  that  there  was  none  like  him 
in  the  world — at  once  soldier,  lover,  and  man. 

"My  father,"  said  Claire  Agnew,  looking  the  Pro- 
fessor in  the  face,  "was  a  brave  gentleman.  He  owed 
that  to  his  race.  But  he  had  long  been  in  this  service 
of  politics  which  makes  a  man's  life  like  a  precious 
glass  in  the  hands  of  a  paralytic.  One  day  or  another, 
as  he  takes  his  medicine,  it  will  drop,  and  there  is  an 
end." 

"You  speak  bitterly?" 

The  Professor's  voice  was  very  soft.     It  was  a  wonder 


26  The  White  Plume 

that  he  had  never  married  again,  for  all  knew  that  his 
youth  had  been  severely  accidented. 

"Bitterly,"  said  the  girl;  "indeed,  I  may  speak  truly 
and  yet  without  honey  under  my  tongue.  For  my  father 
made  himself  a  hunted  hare  for  the  cause  that  was  dear 
to  him.  Yet  the  King  he  served  left  him  often  without 
a  penny  or  a  crust.  When  he  asked  for  his  own,  he  was 
put  off  with  fair  words.  He  spent  his  own  estate,  which 
was  all  my  portion,  like  water.  Yet  neither  from  King 
James  of  Scots,  nor  from  Elizabeth  of  the  English,  did 
he  get  so  much  as  a  'thank  you'  for  the  travail  of 
years !" 

"And  from  Henry  of  Navarre?"  said  the  Professor  of 
the  Sorbonne. 

"Why,"  said  Claire  Agnew,  "I  am  shamed  to  own 
it.  But  though  never  a  man  needed  money  more  than 
the  King  of  Navarre,  it  is  on  his  bounty  that  we  have 
been  living  these  four  years.  He  is  great  and  generous  !" 

"I  have  heard  something  less  than  that  said  of  the 
Bearnais,"  answered  the  Professor;  "yet  he  is  a  true 
Frenchman  of  the  Gascon  breed,  great  to  men,  generous 
to  women,  hail-fellow-well-met  with  all  the  world.  But 
he  loves  the  world  to  know  it !  And  now,  little  lady," 
said  Professor  Anatole,  "I  must  conduct  you  elsewhere. 
It  is  not  seemly  that  a  pretty  one  like  you  should  be 
found  in  this  dingy  parchment  den,  counting  the  spar- 
rows under  the  dome  of  the  Sorbonne.  Have  you  any 
friends  in  Paris  to  whose  care  I  can  commit  you  for  the 
time  being?" 

"Not  one!"  cried  the  girl  fiercely;  "it  is  a  city  of 
murderers — Leaguers — our  enemies !" 

"Gently — fairly,  little  one,"  the  Professor  spoke 
soothingly ;  "there  are  good  men  and  bad  in  Paris,  as 
elsewhere;  but  since  you  have  no  friends  here,  I  must 


The  White  Plume  27 

conduct  you  to  Havre  de  Grace,  where  we  will  surely 
find  a  captain  biding  for  a  fair  wind  to  take  him  through 
Queen  Bess's  Sleeve  into  the  North  Sea,  far  on  the  way 
for  Scotland." 

The  girl  began  to  cry  bitterly,  for  the  first  time. 

"I  have  no  friends  in  Scotland,  not  any  more  than  in 
France,"  she  said.  "My  father  was  a  true  man,  but  of 
a  quick  high  temper,  and  such  friends  as  he  had  he 
quarreled  with  long  ago.  It  began  about  his  marrying 
my  mother,  who  was  a  little  maid  out  of  Roussillon,  come 
to  Paris  in  the  suite  of  the  wife  of  some  Governor  of 
Catalonia  who  had  been  made  Spanish  ambassador.  It 
was  in  the  Emperor's  time,  when  men  were  men — not 
fighting  machines — and  priests.  My  father,  Francis 
Agnew,  was  stiff-necked  and  not  given  to  pardon-asking, 
save  of  his  Maker.  And  though  little  Colette  Llorient 
softened  him  to  all  the  world  else,  she  died  too  soon  to 
soften  him  towards  his  kinsfolk." 

The  Professor  meditated  gravely,  like  one  solving  a 
difficult  problem. 

"What?"  he  said — "no,  it  cannot  be.  Your  mother 
was  never  the  little  Colette  of  the  Llorients  of  Collioure  ?" 

"I  have  indeed  always  believed  so,"  said  the  girl ;  "but 
doubtless  in  my  father's  papers " 

"But  they  are  Catholics  of  the  biggest  grain,  those 
Llorients  of  Collioure,  deep-dyed  Leaguers,  as  fierce  as 
if  Collioure  were  in  the  heart  of  Lorraine !" 

Claire  bent  her  head  and  nodded  sadly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "for  my  father's  sake  my  mother  em- 
broiled herself  with  her  relatives.  She  became  a 
Huguenot,  a  Calvinist  like  him.  Then  they  had  a  family 
meeting  about  her.  All  the  black  brothers,  mailed  and 
gauntleted,  they  say,  sat  round  a  table  and  swore  that 
my  poor  mother  should  be  no  more  of  their  family !" 


28  The  White  Plume 

"Yes,  I  can  fancy  it — I  see  them;  there  was  Huge 
Bernard,  weasel-faced  Giles,  subtle  Philippe 

"How,"  cried  the  girl,  surprised  in  her  turn ;  "you 
know  them — my  mother's  people  ?" 

"Well,  I  ought,"  said  the  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne, 
with  a  young  look  flushing  back  into  his  face,  "seeing 
that  my  mother  has  held  a  'mas'  from  the  family  of 
Llorient  of  Collioure  for  more  years  than  I  can  remember. 
When  I  was  a  lad  going  to  the  collegiate  school  at  Elne, 
I  remember  your  mother,  Mademoiselle  Colette,  as  a 
little  maid,  playing  by  herself  among  the  sand-dunes. 
I  looked  up  from  my  Greek  grammar  to  watch  her,  till 
the  nurse  in  the  flat  Limousin  cap  shook  her  fist  at  me, 
stopping  her  nursing  to  do  it." 

Here  the  Professor  seemed  to  rouse  himself  as  from 
a  dream. 

"That  rascal  John  should  be  getting  back  by  now," 
he  said,  "unless  he  has  elbowed  a  way  into  a  crowd  to 
fight  or  fall  for  his  great  Duke !" 

"You  do  not  love  the  Duke  of  Guise?"  said  the  girl. 

"I  have  not  your  reasons  for  hating  him,"  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Eloquence  answered.  "I  am  no  Huguenot,  by 
'amily  or  feeling.  But  I  think  it  is  a  poor  day  for  France 
when  the  valet  chases  the  master  out  of  house  and  home. 
The  King  is  the  King,  and  all  the  Guises  in  the  world 
cannot  alter  that.  Also,  since  the  King  has  departed, 
and  I  have  been  left,  alone  loyal  of  all  the  faculty  of  the 
Sorbonne,  it  is  time  that  I  too  made  my  way  to  see  my 
mother  among  the  sand-hills  of  Collioure.  Ah,  John, 
you  rascal,  what  has  kept  you  so  long?" 

"The  porter  at  my  uncle's  would  give  me  no  satis- 
faction— swore  I  had  come  again  to  borrow  money.  A 
manifest  falsehood!  As,  indeed,  I  proved  on  the  spot 
by  pulling  him  out  of  his  lodge  and  thumping  him  well. 


The  White  Plume  29 

A  varlet — to  dare  to  suppose,  because  a  gentleman  comes 
twice  to  borrow  money  from  a  rich  and  loving  relative, 
that  he  has  returned  a  third  time  upon  the  same  errand! 
But  I  got  the  passports,  and  they  are  countersigned  and 
stamped  by  Merlan  at  the  Secretary's  office,  which  will 
do  no  harm  if  we  come  across  the  King's  men !" 

"As  for  the  Bearnais  and  his  folk,"  said  the  Professor 
to  Claire,  "I  suppose  you  have  you  father's  papers  safe 
enough?" 

The  girl  blushed  and  murmured  something  indefinite. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  made  sure  of  these  while  he 
yet  lay  on  the  ground,  and  the  Royal  Swiss  were  firing 
over  her  head.  It  was  the  instinct  of  her  hunted  life. 

They  left  the  Sorbonne  together,  all  cloaked  and 
hooded  "like  three  carrion  crows,"  said  the  Abbe  John. 
None  who  saw  them  would  have  supposed  that  a  young 
maid's  face  lurked  beneath  the  sombre  muffling.  Indeed, 
beneath  that  of  the  Abbe  John,  curls  of  the  same  hue 
clustered  just  as  tightly  and  almost  as  abundantly. 

The  streets  were  silent  all  about  the  quarter  of  the 
University.  But  every  hundred  yards  great  barricades 
of  barrels  and  paving  stones,  earth  and  iron  chains,  had 
to  be  passed.  Narrow  alleys,  the  breadth  of  a  man  and 
no  more,  were  generally  left,  zig-zagging  among  the 
defences.  But  almost  as  often  the  barricades  had  to  be 
surmounted,  after  discovery  of  identity,  by  the  aid  of 
friendly  pushes  and  hauls.  In  all  cases,  however,  the 
examination  was  strict. 

At  every  barricade  they  were  stopped  and  called  upon 
to  declare  their  mission.  However,  the  Doctor  Anatole 
was  generally  recognised  by  some  scapegrace  runaway 
student,  at  scrambling  horse-play  among  the  pavement 
cobbles.  At  any  rate,  the  Abbe  John,  who  had  been  con- 
spicuous at  the  meetings  of  the  Elect  Leaguers  as  the 


30  The  White  Plume 

nephew  of  the  great  Cardinal  d'Albret,  was  universally 
hailed  with  favour. 

He  was  also  constantly  asked  who  the  lady  in  the  hood 
might  be  whom  he  was  convoying  away  so  secretly.  He 
had  but  one  reply  to  gentle  and  simple. 

"Give  me  a  sword,  come  down  hither,  and  I  will  afford 
any  three  men  of  you  satisfaction  on  the  spot !" 

For,  in  spite  of  the  Abbe  John's  peaceful  cognomen, 
his  credit  as  a  pusher  of  the  unbuttoned  foil  was  too  good 
for  any  to  accept  his  proposition.  They  laughed  instead. 

One  of  the  Duke  of  Guise's  "mud-porters"  called  the 
pair  an  ugly  name.  But  it  was  (happily)  in  the  Latin 
quarter,  and  a  score  of  eager  hands  propelled  him  down 
into  the  gutter,  where,  after  having  his  nose  rubbed  in 
the  mire,  he  was  permitted  (and  even  assisted)  to  retire 
to  the  rear.  He  rubbed  himself  as  he  went  and  regretted 
mournfully  that  these  things  had  not  happened  near  the 
street  of  Saint  Antoine. 

Altogether  they  escaped  well.  The  Sorbonne,  a  diffi- 
cult place  to  get  into,  is  easy  to  get  out  of — for  those 
who  know  how.  And  so  the  three,  guided  by  the  Abbe 
John,  slipped  into  the  great  Rue  St.  Jacques  by  the  little 
port  St.  Benoit,  which  the  students  and  even  the  pro- 
fessors found  so  necessary,  whenever  their  errands  were 
of  such  a  private  nature  as  to  disqualify  them  from  cross- 
ing the  square  of  the  Sorbonne,  with  its  rows  on  rows  of 
enfilading  windows. 

It  was  up  the  narrow  stair  of  the  Abbe  John's  lodgings 
that  they  found  a  temporary  shelter  while  the  final  ar- 
rangements were  being  made.  Horses  and  a  serving- 
man  (provided  for  in  the  passports)  were  the  most  press- 
ing of  these. 

It  was  in  connection  with  the  serving-man  that  Claire 
Agnew  first  found  a  tongue. 


The  White  Plume  31 

"I  know  a  lad,"  she  said,  "a  Scot,  seemingly  stupid, 
but  cunning  as  a  fox,  who  may  be  of  service  to  us.  His 
apparent  simplicity  will  be  a  protection.  For  it  will  be 
evident  that  none  bent  on  escaping  would  burden  them- 
selves with  such  a  'Cabbage  Jock.'  He  is  of  my  father's 
country  and  they  were  ofttimes  in  close  places  together. 
His  name  is " 

"No  matter  for  his  name — we  will  call  him  Cabbage 
Jock,"  cried  the  Abbe  John.  "Where  is  this  marvel  to 
be  found?" 

"Not  far  away,  as  I  judge,"  said  the  girl,  taking  a 
silver  whistle,  such  as  ladies  wore  at  that  time  to  call 
their  waiting-maids,  from  about  her  neck.  She  blew 
lightly  upon  it,  first  two  long  and  then  two  short  notes. 
And  from  the  street  corner,  prompt  as  if  he  had  been 
watching  (which,  indeed,  he  had  been),  came  running  the 
strangest  object  ever  seen  in  a  civilised  land.  He  gave 
one  glance  at  the  window  at  which  Claire's  head  appeared. 
Then,  diving  under  the  low  door  like  a  rat  making  for  a 
hole,  he  easily  evaded  the  shouting  concierge,  and  in  a 
moment  more  stood  before  them. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE   SPROUTING    OF    CABBAGE   JOCK 

CABBAGE  JOCK  was  immensely  broad  at  the  shoulders.  He 
stooped  slightly,  so  that  his  long  arms  fell  below  his 
knees  when  he  stood  erect.  His  mouth  was  slightly  open, 
but  so  large  in  itself  that  a  banana  could  easily  have 
been  inserted  sideways  without  touching  the  wicks.  There 
was  a  look  of  droll  simplicity  on  the  lad's  face  (he  was 
apparently  about  twenty)  which  reminded  one  of  the  pic- 
tures of  Lob-Lie-by-the-Fire,  or  the  Brownie  of  Scottish 
fireside  tales. 

Yet  for  one  so  simple  he  had  answered  with  strange 
readiness.  There  was  a  quick  flash  of  the  eye  as  he  took 
in  the  two  men  before  him. 

"What  may  you  be?"  demanded  the  Professor  of 
Eloquence. 

"A  he-goat  upon  the  mountains,  comely  in  the  going !" 
said  the  lout,  in  very  good  French.  The  learned  man 
of  the  Sorbonne  noted  at  once  that  he  quoted  (and 
mixed)  words  of  the  Genevan  Version  common  among 
the  Huguenots. 

"He  speaks  French,  this  good  lad?"  he  asked,  turning 
to  Claire. 

"Yes,  when  it  pleases  him,  which  is  not  always — 
though  indeed  he  always  obeys  me.  Is  it  not  so,  Jock?" 

"My  name  is  not  Jock !  Nowise — as  you  well  do 
know.  I  am  called  Blastus  of  the  Zamzummims ! 
Against  all  Armenians,  Hussites,  Papishers,  Anabap- 
tists, Leaguers,  and  followers  of  the  high,  the  low,  and  the 


The  White  Plume  33 

middle  way,  I  lift  up  my  heel.  I  am  a  bird  of  fair 
plumage  on  the  mountains  of  Zepher.  I  fly — I  mount — 
I  soar " 

"Go  and  find  four  horses,"  said  his  mistress ;  "two  of 
them  good  and  strong,  one  Spanish  jennet  for  me,  one 
Flanders  mare  for  yourself  and  the  saddle-bags." 

The  Bird  of  Fair  Plumage  scratched  his  long  reddish 
locks  in  a  sort  of  comic  perplexity. 

"Am  I  to  steal  them  or  pay  for  them  ?"  he  said. 

"Pay,  of  course,"  said  his  mistress,  scandalised. 

"That  will  leave  our  purse  very  light — the  purse  that 
was  your  father's.  It  were  easier  these  days,  and  also 
more  just,  to  spoil  the  Egyptians.  The  lion-like  man  of 
Moab,  which  is  the  Duke  of  Guise,  walketh  about  like 
the  devil  roaring  (as  sayeth  Peter),  and  because  of  the 
barricades  there  are  many  good  horses  tied  by  their 
bridles  at  the  gates  of  the  city — masterless,  all  of  them." 

"Pay  for  them,  do  you  hear?"  said  Claire;  "do  not 
stand  arguing  with  your  master's  daughter.  I  thought 
you  had  learned  that  long  ago." 

Blastus  of  the  Zamzummims  went  out  grumbling  to 
himself. 

"At  least  she  said  nothing  about  cheating — or  clipped 
money,  or  bad  money — or  money  from  the  Pope's 
mint.  I  will  buy  and  I  will  pay  for  all.  Yes — yes — 
but " 

It  was  obvious  that  Jock  of  the  Cabbage's  hope  of 
spoiling  Egypt  had  not  been  properly  rooted  out  of  his 
mind  even  by  his  mistress's  commands. 

A  strange  soul  dwelt  in  this  Jock  of  the  Cabbage.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  reputable  Scottish  refugee  at  Geneva, 
from  whom  he  had  sucked  in,  as  a  frog  does  the  autumn 
rains,  the  strongest  and  purest  Calvinistic  doctrine.  He 
had,  however,  early  perceived  that  his  ludicrous  per- 


34  The  White  Plume 

sonal  appearance  prevented  him  from  obtaining  eminence 
as  a  preacher. 

He  had  therefore  chosen  another  way  of  being  useful. 

John  Stirling  had  deliberately  made  himself  Cabbage 
Jock — which  is  to  say,  "Jean-aux-Choux" — and  by  that 
name  was  famous  alike  in  the  camps  of  Henri  of  Navarre, 
and  in  making  sport  for  the  "mignons"  of  the  King  of 
France.  But  it  was  not  known  to  many  alive  that  a  mind 
clear  and  logical,  a  heart  full  of  the  highest  determina- 
tions, were  hidden  away  under  the  fool's  motley  and  the 
tattered  cloak  of  the  gangrel  man. 

Only  to  Francis  Agnew  had  the  Fool  talked  equally 
and  with  unbound  heart.  Even  Claire  did  not  guess 
what  lay  beneath  this  folly  of  misapplied  texts  and 
mirth-provoking  preachments.  There  can  be  no  better 
mask  for  real  fanaticism  than  the  pretense  of  it.  And 
whereas  Francis  Agnew  had  been  a  gentleman  and  a 
diplomatic  always,  his  henchman,  Jock  the  Fool,  was 
a  fanatic  of  the  purest  strain,  adding  thereto  a  sense 
of  humour  and  probably  a  strain  of  real  madness  as 
well. 

"Come  up  hither,  Jean-aux-Choux!"  cried  the  lads  on 
the  barricades.  "Turn  a  somersault  for  us,  Cabbage 
Jock!"  shouted  a  fellow-countryman,  on  his  way  to  pre- 
ferment in  the  Scots  Guard,  who  in  the  meanwhile  was 
filling  up  his  time  by  fighting  manfully  against  the 
King's  troops. 

"Lick  the  tip  of  your  nose,  Jock !"  roared  yet  a  third ; 
"waggle  your  ears!  Ah,  well  done!  Now  jest  for  us, 
and  we  will  give  you  a  good  drink — Macon  of  the  fourth 
year — as  much  as  you  can  take  down  at  a  draught.  This 
Guisarding  is  dry  work." 

The  streets  were  full  of  excited  men,  cheering  for  Holy 
Faith  and  the  Duke  of  Guise.  They  cried  that  they 


The  White  Plume  35 

were  going  to  kill  the  King,  and  make  that  most  Catholic 
Prince,  the  Head  of  the  League,  King  in  his  stead. 

The  Protestants  in  Paris  had  fled  or  hidden.  There 
were  great  fears  of  a  second  St.  Bartholomew.  But 
those  who  remembered  the  first,  said  that  if  that  had 
been  intended,  there  would  be  a  deal  less  noise  and  a  deal 
more  private  whetting  of  daggers  and  sword-blades. 

Once  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  left  them  for  a 
moment  in  order  to  run  upstairs  to  tell  his  housekeeper 
and  her  husband  that  they  were  to  hold  his  house  against 
all  authority  save  that  of  the  King,  and  not  yield  too 
soon  even  to  that.  He  might  be  away  some  time,  he 
said. 

The  Abbe  John,  whose  housekeeping  was  of  a  desul- 
tory sort — consisting  chiefly  in  going  to  see  his  uncle, 
the  Cardinal  d'Albret,  when  he  was  in  need  of  money 
or  of  the  ghostly  counsel  of  a  prince  of  the  Church — 
made  no  preparations  for  flight,  save  to  feel  in  his 
breeches  pocket  to  make  sure  that  he  had  his  gold  safely 
there. 

"My  creditors  can  wait,  or  importune  my  uncle,  who 
will  have  them  thrown  in  the  Seine  for  their  pains,"  said 
the  young  student  of  the  Sorbonne  easily ;  "and  as  for 
my  dear  gossips,  they  will  easily  enough  console  them- 
selves. Women  are  like  cats.  As  often  as  they  fall, 
they  fall  upon  their  feet !" 

It  was  a  strange  Paris  which  they  passed  through  that 
day — these  four.  The  Professor  of  Eloquence  went  first, 
wearing  the  great  green  cloak  of  his  learned  faculty, 
with  its  official  golden  collar  and  cuffs  of  dark  fur. 

That  day  Paris  was  not  only  making  the  history  of 
the  present,  but  was  unconsciously  prophesying  the  fu- 
ture— her  own  future.  Whenever,  after  that,  the  execu- 
tive grew  weak  and  the  people  strong,  up  came  the  pav- 


36  The  White  Plume 

ing-stones,  and  down  in  a  heap  went  the  barrels,  charettes, 
scaffoldings,  street-doors.  It  was  not  only  the  Day  of 
the  Barricades,  but  the  first  day  of  many  barricades. 
Indeed,  Paris  learned  the  lesson  of  power  so  well,  that 
it  became  her  settled  conviction  that  what  she  did  to-day 
France  would  homologate  to-morrow.  It  was  only  the 
victory  of  the  "rurals"  in  the  late  May  of  1871  which 
taught  Paris  her  due  place,  as  indeed  the  capital  of 
France,  but  not  France  itself. 

Dr.  Anatole's  cloak  was  certainly  a  protection  to  them 
as  they  went.  Caps  were  doffed  as  to  one  of  the  Sixteen 
— that  great  council  of  nine  from  each  of  the  sixteen 
districts  of  Paris,  whose  power  over  the  people  made  the 
real  Catholic  League. 

Dr.  Anatole  explained  matters  to  Claire  as  they  went. 

"They  have  long  wanted  a  figure-head,  these  shop- 
keepers and  booth-hucksters,"  he  said  bitterly.  "The 
Cardinal  leads  them  cunningly,  and  between  guile  and 
noise  they  have  so  intoxicated  Guise  that  he  will  put  his 
head  in  the  noose,  jump  off,  and  hang  himself.  This 
King  Henry  of  Valois  is  a  contemptible  dog  enough,  as 
all  the  world  knows.  But  he  is  a  dog  which  bites  with- 
out barking,  and  that  is  a  dangerous  breed.  If  I  were 
Guise,  instead  of  promenading  Paris  between  the  Queen- 
Mother's  chamber  and  the  King's  palace  of  the  Louvre,  I 
would  get  me  to  my  castle  of  Soissons  with  all  speed, 
and  there  arm  and  drill  all  the  gentlemen-varlets  and 
varlet-gentlemen  that  ever  came  out  of  Lorraine.  There 
would  I  wait,  with  twenty  eyes  looking  out  every  way 
across  the  meadows,  and  a  hundred  at  least  in  the  di- 
rection of  Paris.  I  would  have  cannons  primed  and 
matches  burning.  I  would  lay  in  provisions  to  serve  a 
year  in  case  of  siege.  That  is  what  I  should  do,  were  I 
Duke  of  Guise  and  Henry  of  Valois's  enemy !" 


The  White  Plume  37 

At  the  Orleans  gate  Jean-aux-Choux,  in  waiting  with 
the  horses  (bought,  stolen,  or  strayed),  heard  the  con- 
clusion of  the  Professor's  exposition. 

"Let  Wolf  Guise  eat  Wolf  Valois,  or  Wolf  Valois  dine 
off  Wolf  Guise — so  much  the  better  for  the  Sheep  of  the 
Fold,"  he  commented  freely,  as  became  his  cap-and-bells, 
which  in  these  days  had  more  liberty  of  prophecy  than 
the  wisdom  of  the  wisest. 


CHAPTER   VI 
THE   ARCHER'S   CLOAK 

As  they  left  Paris  behind  and  rode  down  the  Orleans 
road,  it  soon  became  evident  that  they  had  changed 
their  surroundings.  Men-at-arms,  Scots  Guards,  with 
great  white  crosses  on  their  blue  tabards,  glared  at  the 
four  suspiciously.  Cavaliers  glanced  suspiciously  as  they 
galloped  past.  Some  halted,  as  if  only  prevented  from 
investigating  the  circumstances  by  the  haste  of  their 
mission.  Gay  young  men,  on  passaging  horses,  half 
drew  their  swords  and  growled  unintelligible  remarks, 
desisting  only  at  the  sight  of  Claire  Agnew's  pale  face 
underneath  her  hood. 

"What  can  be  the  matter?"  they  asked  each  other. 
"Why  do  we,  who  passed  through  swarming  Paris  in  the 
flood-tide  of  rebellion,  who  scrambled  on  barricades  and 
were  given  drink  by  the  King's  enemies — why  should  we 
now  be  looked  askance  at,  riding  peaceably  Orleans-ward 
on  our  own  hired  beasts?" 

None  found  an  answer,  but  deep  in  every  heart  there 
was  the  conviction,  universal  in  such  a  case,  that  some- 
how it  was  the  other  fellow's  fault.  It  was  Cabbage  Jock 
who  solved  the  mystery. 

"In  Rome  you  must  do  as  the  Romans,"  he  said;  "in 
Babylon's  cursed  city,  though  an  abomination  to  do 
obeisance  to  the  great  whore  (as  sayeth  the  Scripture),  I 
have  found  it  of  remarkable  service  to  don  her  uniform 
occasionally — even  as  Paul  did  when  he  took  shelter 
behind  his  Roman  citizenship.  It  is  that  green  furred 


The  White  Plume  39 

gown  of  yours,  Sir  Professor !  These  be  King's  men, 
hasting  after  the  Master  of  the  Mignons.  I'll  wager  the 
nest  is  empty  and  the  bird  flown  from  under  the  pents  of 
the  Louvre." 

"And  what  shall  I  do?"  said  the  Professor  of  the 
Sorbonne,  looking  regretfully  at  the  fine  Spanish  cloth 
and  rich  fur.  "Am  I  to  cast  away  a  matter  of  twenty 
good  golden  Henries?" 

"By  no  means,"  said  Cabbage  Jock;  "I  came  away 
somewhat  hastily,  to  do  you  service.  I  have  no  saddle 
saving  these  two  millers'  bags.  I  will  fold  the  good  gown 
beneath  the  two,  and  so  sit  comfortable  as  on  an  ale- 
house couch,  while  you  will  ride  safe " 

"And  plumeless  as  a  docked  parrot,"  said  the  Abbe* 
John,  who  was  now  sufficiently  far  from  Paris  to  begin  to 
laugh  at  his  master — at  least  a  little,  and  in  an  affec- 
tionate way. 

The  Professor  looked  disconsolate  enough  as  he  suf- 
fered his  fine  cloak  to  be  stripped  from  his  back. 

"Ne'er  mind,"  quoth  Jean-aux-Choux,  "we  will  soon 
right  that.  I  know  these  King's  men,  and  'tis  the  Pope's 
own  purgatory  of  a  warm  day.  There  are  inns  by  the 
wayside,  and  wherever  one  is  held  by  a  well-made  hostess, 
who  lets  poor  puss  come  to  the  cream  without  so  much 
'Hist-a-cat-ing,'  I'll  wager  they  will  leave  their  cloaks  in 
the  hall.  So  we  will  come  by  a  coat  of  the  King's  colours, 
all  scallops  and  Breton  ermines  in  memory  of  poor  Queen 
Anne." 

"I  will  not  have  you  steal  a  cloak,  sirrah,"  said  the 
Professor;  "indeed,  I  am  nowise  satisfied  in  my  mind 
concerning  these  horses  we  are  riding." 

"Steal — not  I,"  cried  the  Fool;  "not  likely,  and  the 
Montfacon  gibbet  at  one's  elbow  yonder,  with  the  crows 
a-swirling  and  pecking  about  it  as  in  the  time  of  naughty 


40  The  White  Plume 

Clerk  Francis.     Nay,  I  thank  you.     I  have  money  here 
to  pay  for  a  gross  of  cloaks !" 

And  Cabbage  Jock  slapped  his  pocket  as  he  spoke — 
which  indeed,  thus  interrogated,  gave  back  a  most  satis- 
factory jingle  of  coin. 

The  Professor  had  first  of  all  meant  to  point  out  to 
Jean-aux-Choux  that  to  have  the  money  in  his  pocket, 
and  to  pay  it  out,  were  two  things  entirely  different,  when 
it  came  to  borrowing  other  men's  cloaks,  but  something 
else  leaped  up  in  his  mind,  sudden  as  a  trout  in  a  pool. 
He  turned  upon  Jean-aux-Choux. 

"How  do  you  know  about  Clerk  Francis  and  the  gal- 
lows at  Montfa9on?"  he  demanded.  For  at  first,  with 
the  ear  of  a  man  accustomed  to  talk  only  to  men  who 
pick  up  allusions  as  pigeons  do  scattered  grain,  he  had 
accepted  the  words  without  question. 
.  "How  am  I  to  know  ?"  retorted  Jean-aux-Choux.  "One 
hears  so  many  things.  I  do  not  know." 

"But,"  said  the  Professor  of  Eloquence,  pursuing  his 
idea,  "there  are  not  many  even  at  the  Sorbonne,  which  is 
the  grave  of  wisdom  whence  is  no  resurrection  (I  am 
of  the  Sadducean  faction),  who  have  heard  tell  of  one 
Clerk  Francois  Villon,  Master  of  Arts,  and  once  an 
ornament  of  our  University.  How  came  you  to  know 
of  him?  Come  now,  out  with  it!  You  are  hiding 
something !" 

"Sir,"  said  the  Fool,  "I  have  made  sport  for  Kings  of 
the  Louvre  and  Kings  of  Bedlam ;  for  Henry  of  yester- 
day, who  is  Henry  of  Valois ;  for  Henry  of  to-day,  who 
is  Henry  of  Guise;  and  for  Henry  of  to-morrow,  who 
is " 

But  the  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne  was  a  man  of  sense, 
and  he  knew  that  the  place  for  discussing  such  things 
was  by  no  means  on  the  Orleans  highway. 


The  White  Plume  41 

So  he  commanded  Jean-aux-Choux  to  trouble  no  more 
about  royal  Henries  past,  present,  and  especially  Henries 
to  come,  but  to  be  off  and  find  him  a  cloak. 

Then  Cabbage  Jock,  in  no  haste,  simply  glanced  at 
the  ale-house  doors  as  they  came  near  Bourg-la-Reine, 
and  at  last  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  signalled  his  three 
companions  to  ride  on. 

When  he  overtook  them  an  hour  afterwards,  Bourg- 
la-Reine  was  hidden  far  behind  among  the  wayside  trees. 
Jean-aux-Choux  saluted,  and  asked  in  a  quiet  man-ser- 
vant's voice  if  the  honourable  Doctor  would  be  pleased 
to  put  on  his  coat. 

"Then,  you  gallows'  rascal,"  said  the  Professor  of  the 
Sorbonne,  "it  was  true,  after  all.  You  have  stolen  the 
cloak,  and  you  would  have  me,  a  respectable  citizen,  reset 
the  theft !" 

Jean-aux-Choux  held  up  his  hand. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  have  often  heard  from  my  masters 
that  it  is  the  special  function  of  a  cook  to  make  ready  the 
soup,  and  of  the  Sorbonne  to  resolve  cases  of  conscience. 
Well,  then,"  he  went  on,  as  Doctor  Anatole  did  not 
answer,  "  here  is  one. 

"In  an  ale-house  were  certain  sons  of  Belial,  whose 
very  jesting  was  inconvenient,  and  their  words  not  once 
to  be  named  among  us,  as  sayeth  the  apostle.  Well, 
there  came  a  certain  braggart  out  of  this  foul  poison-box. 
He  had  seen  an  honest  man  pass  by,  fleeing  from  Paris, 
with  all  his  goods  laden  on  a  mule.  Now  this  knave 
would  have  taken  all  and  slain  the  honest  merchant  as 
well,  had  I  not  passed  by,  and  so  belaboured  him  that  he 
will  not  rise  from  his  bed  for  a  fortnight.  Then  the  good 
merchant  (he  was  a  Jew  from  the  Quartier  Saint  Jacques) 
bade  me  choose  what  I  would  for  my  recompense.  And 
so  from  his  packages  I  chose  this  fine  cloak,  fit  for  the 


42  The  White  Plume 

Provost  of  the  Merchants  himself,  and  with  that  he 
thanked  me  and  went  his  way." 

"And  what,"  cried  the  Abbe  John,  hugely  interested, 
"became  of  that  rascal's  companions  ?  It  is  strange  that, 
hearing  the  racket,  they  did  not  hive  out  to  his  assistance ! 
Yesterday  they  hamstrung  a  man  for  less — an  archer  of 
the  King's !" 

"It  would  indeed  have  been  somewhat  strange,"  agreed 
Cabbage  Jock,  "if,  before  our  little  interview,  I  had  not 
taken  the  liberty  of  locking  both  the  outer  and  inner 
doors  of  the  inn.  But  they  have  nothing  to  complain 
about,  these  good  lads.  They  have  a  kindly  hostess  and  a 
full  cellar.  E'en  let  them  be  content !" 

And  with  no  more  words  he  took  out  of  his  pouch  two 
keys,  one  large  and  rusty,  the  other  small  and  glittering. 
These  he  tossed  carefully,  one  after  the  other,  into  the 
Orge.  They  were  just  upon  the  famous  bridge  across 
which  the  postillion  of  Longjumeau  so  often  took  his 
way.  The  keys  flashed  a  moment  on  the  water  as  the 
drops  rose  and  fell.  Then  Cabbage  Jock  turned  on  his 
companions  and  smiled  his  broad  simpleton's  smile  as  he 
waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  inn. 

"Let  there  be  peace,"  he  said  solemnly — "peace  be- 
tween Jew  and  Gentile.  Will  it  please  you  to  put  on 
your  coat  now,  Sir  Professor  ?" 

And  as  the  air  bit  shrewdly,  it  pleased  the  Professor 
well  enough. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE   GREAT  NAME  OF  GUISE 

CLAIRE  had  indeed  seen  little  of  her  father.  All  her 
life  she  had  been  accustomed  to  be  left  in  the  charge 
of  strangers  while  Francis  Agnew  went  about  his  business 
of  hole-and-corner  diplomacy.  Claire  was  therefore  no 
whit  astonished  to  find  herself  with  two  men,  almost 
strangers  to  her,  alone  upon  the  crowded  road  to  Orleans. 

She  mourned  sincerely  for  her  father,  but  after  all  she 
was  hardly  more  than  a  child,  and  for  years  she  had  seen 
little  of  Francis  Agnew.  He  had,  it  is  true,  always 
managed  to  take  care  of  her ;  always  in  his  way  loved  her. 
But  it  was  most  often  from  a  distance,  and  as  yet  she  did 
not  realise  the  difference. 

She  might  therefore  be  thought  more  cheerful  than 
most  maids  of  a  quieter  day  in  the  expression  of  her 
grief.  Then,  indeed,  was  a  man's  life  on  his  lip,  and 
girls  of  twenty  had  often  seen  more  killing  than  modern 
generals  of  three-score  and  ten.  It  was  not  that  Claire 
felt  less,  but  that  an  adventurous  present  so  filled  her 
life  with  things  to  do  that  she  had  no  time  for  thought. 

Also,  was  there  not  Jean-aux-Choux,  otherwise  Cab- 
bage Jock,  but  with  an  excellent  right  to  the  name  of 
John  Stirling,  armiger,  jester  to  three  kings,  and  licen- 
tiate in  theology  in  the  Reformed  (and  only  true)  Church 
of  Geneva?  Jean-aux-Choux  was  a  fatalist  and  a  Cal- 
vinist.  Things  which  were  ordained  to  happen  would 
happen,  and  if  any  insulted  his  master's  daughter,  it  was 
obviously  ordained  that  he,  Jean-aux-Choux,  should  set 


44  The  White  Plume 

a  dagger  between  the  shoulder-blades  of  the  insulter. 
This  in  itself  was  no  slight  protection.  For  the  fool's 
sinews  were  reputed  so  strong  that  he  could  take  two 
vigorous  men  of  the  King's  Guard,  pin  them  with  his 
arms  like  trussed  fowls,  and,  if  so  it  pleased  him,  knock 
their  heads  together. 

So  through  the  press  the  four  made  their  way  into 
Orleans,  where  they  found  the  bearing  of  the  people  again 
changed,  and  that  for  the  worse. 

"It  behooves  your  learned  and  professional  shoulders 
to  be  decorated  once  more  with  the  green  cloth  and  fur 
trimmings  of  the  Sorbonne,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux.  "I 
can  smell  a  Leaguer  a  mile  off,  and  this  city  is  full  of 
them.  Our  Scots  Guards  have  turned  off  on  the  road 
to  Blois.  There  are  too  many  bishops  and  clergy  here 
for  honest  men.  Besides  which,  the  King  has  a  chateau 
at  Blois.  We  had  better  change  my  saddle-cloth — 
though  'twill  be  to  my  disadvantage — inasmuch  as  an 
archer's  tabard,  all  gold  embroidering,  makes  noways 
so  easy  sitting  as  fox  fur  and  Angouleme  green." 

So  it  chanced  that  when  they  rode  up  to  the  low  door 
of  the  Hostelry  of  the  Golden  Lark,  in  the  market-place 
of  Orleans,  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  was  again  clad  in 
his  official  attire,  and  led  the  way  as  became  a  Doctor  of 
the  Sorbonne  in  a  Leaguer  town. 

It  was  a  pretty  pink-and-white  woman  who  welcomed 
them  with  many  courtesies  and  smiles  to  the  Golden 
Lark — that  is,  so  far  as  the  men  were  concerned,  while 
preserving  a  severe  and  doubtful  demeanour  towards  the 
niece  of  the  learned  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne.  Madame 
Gillifleur  loved  single  men,  unaccompanied  men,  at  her 
hostelry.  She  found  that  thus  there  was  much  less  care- 
ful examination  of  accounts  when  it  came  to  the  hour  of 
departura. 


The  White  Plume  45 

Still,  all  the  same,  it  was  a  great  thing  to  have  in  her 
house  so  learned  a  man,  and  in  an  hour,  as  was  the 
custom  of  the  town,  she  had  sent  his  name  and  style  to 
the  Bishop's  palace.  Within  two  hours  the  Bishop's 
secretary,  a  smart  young  cleric  dressed  in  the  Italian 
fashion,  with  many  frills  to  his  soutane,  was  bearing  the 
invitation  of  his  master  to  the  gentlemen  to  visit  him  in 
his  study.  This,  of  course,  involved  leaving  Claire  behind, 
for  Anatole  Long  ordered  the  Abbe  John  to  accompany 
him,  while  the  girl  declared  that,  with  Jean-aux-Choux 
to  keep  her  company,  she  had  fear  of  nothing  and 
nobody. 

She  had  not,  however,  taken  her  account  with  the  curi- 
osity of  Madame  Celeste  Gillifleur,  who,  as  soon  as  the 
men  were  gone  to  the  episcopal  palace,  entered  the  room 
where  Claire  was  seated  at  her  knitting,  while  Jean- 
aux-Choux  read  aloud  the  French  Genevan  Bible. 

Cabbage  Jock  deftly  covered  the  small  quarto  volume 
with  a  collection  of  songs  published  (as  usual)  at  the 
Hague. 

"The  fairer  the  hostess  the  fouler  the  soup !"  muttered 
Jean,  as  he  retired  into  a  corner,  humming  the  refrain  of 
a  Leaguer  song. 

Madame  Gillifleur  saluted  her  enemy  with  the  duck 
of  a  hen  which  has  finished  drinking.  To  her  Claire 
bowed  the  slightest  of  acknowledgments. 

"To  what  do  I  owe  this  honour?"  she  inquired,  with 
dryness. 

"I  thought  my  lady,  the  Professor's  niece,  might  be 
in  need  of  some  service — a  tiring-maid  perhaps?"  began 
the  landlady.  "My  own  you  would  be  heartily  welcome 
to,  but  she  is  a  fresh,  foolish  wench  from  the  Sologne, 
and  would  sooner  groom  a  nag  of  Beauce  than  pin  aright 
a  lady's  stomacher !  But  I  can  obtain  one  from  the  town 


46  The  White  Plume 

— not  too  respectable,  I  fear.     But  for  my  lady,  and  for 
one  night,  I  suppose  that  does  not  matter." 

"Ha,  from  the  town !"  grumbled  Jean-aux-Choux  out 
of  his  window-seat.  Then  he  hummed,  nodding  his  head 
and  wagging  his  finger  as  if  he  had  just  found  the  words 
in  his  song-book : 

"  Eyes  and  ears,  ears  and  eyes — 
Who  hires  maids,  lacks  never  spies  !  " 

The  landlady  darted  a  furious  look  at  the  interrupter. 

"Who  may  this  rude  fellow  be,  that  is  not  afraid  to 
give  his  tongue  such  liberty  in  my  house?" 

Jean-aux-Choux  answered  for  himself,  as  indeed  he 
was  well  able  to  do. 

"I  am  philosopher-in-chief  to  the  League ;  and  as  for 
that,  when  I  am  at  home  with  his  Grace  of  Guise,  he  and 
I  wear  motley  day  about !" 

The  face  of  the  landlady  changed.  Remembering  the 
learned  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne,  who  had  gone  to  visit 
the  bishop,  she  turned  quickly  to  Claire  and  asked,  "Does 
the  fellow  speak  the  truth  ?  Is  he  really  the  j  ester  to  the 
great  Duke,  the  good  Prince,  the  glory  of  the  League?" 

"I  have  reason  to  believe  it,"  said  Claire  calmly ;  "but, 
for  your  complete  satisfaction,  you  can  ask  my  uncle 
the  Professor  upon  his  return." 

"I  trust  they  will  not  be  long  gone,"  grumbled  Jean- 
aux-Choux.  "I  have  an  infallible  clock  here  under  the 
third  button  of  my  tunic,  which  tells  me  it  is  long  past 
dinner-time.  And  if  it  be  not  a  good  worthy  meal,  I 
shall  by  no  means  advise  His  Grace  to  dismount  at  the 
Golden  Lark  when  next  he  passes  through  Orleans !" 

"Holy  Saint  Marthe !"  cried  the  landlady ;  "I  will  go 
this  minute,  and  see  what  they  are  doing  in  the  kitchen. 
I  will  warm  their  scullion  backs " 


EYES  AND  EARS,   EARS  AND  EYES 

WHO  HIRES  MAIDS,   LACKS  NEVER  SPIES  !" 


The  White  Plume  47 

"I  think  I  smell  burned  meat!"  continued  Jean-aux- 
Choux. 

"Faith,  but  is  it  true  that  the  Duke  of  Guise  is  indeed 
coming  this  way?"  Madame  Celeste  Gillifleur  asked 
anxiously. 

"True,  indeed,"  affirmed  Jean,  with  his  nose  in  the 
air,  "and  before  the  year  is  out,  too.  But,  Madame,  my 
good  hostess,  there  is  nothing  he  dislikes  so  much  as  the 
smell  of  good  meat  spoiled  in  the  basting." 

"I  will  attend  to  the  basting  myself,  and  that  forth- 
with !"  cried  the  lady  of  the  Golden  Lark,  darting 
kitchen-wards  at  full  speed,  and  forgetting  all  the  ques- 
tions she  had  come  up  to  ask  of  Claire  in  the  absence  of 
her  legitimate  protectors. 

Jean-aux-Choux  laughed  as  she  went  out,  and  inclined 
his  ear.  Sounds  which  indicated  the  basting  of  not  yet 
inanimate  flesh,  arrived  from  the  kitchen. 

"Mistress,  mistress,"  cried  a  voice,  "I  am  dead,  bruised, 
scalded — have  pity  on  me !" 

"Pity  is  it,  you  rascal?" — the  sharp  tones  of  Madame 
Celeste  rose  high — "have  you  not  wasted  my  good 
dripping,  burnt  my  meat,  offended  these  gentlemen, 
spoiled  their  dinner,  so  that  they  will  report  ill  things  of 
the  Golden  Lark  to  his  most  noble  Grace  of  Guise?" 

"Pity— oh,  pity !" 

Followed  a  rapid  rushing  of  feet  to  and  fro  in  the 
kitchen.  Furniture  was  overturned.  Something  of  the 
nature  of  a  basting-ladle  struck  sonorously  on  tables  and 
scattered  patty-pans  on  the  floor.  A  door  slammed, 
shaking  the  house,  and  a  blue-clad  kitchen  boy  fled  down 
the  narrow  street,  while  Madame  Celeste,  basting-ladle 
in  hand,  fumed  and  gesticulated  in  his  wake. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE    GOLDEN   LARK    IN    ORLEANS  TOWN 

"Now,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux,  "unless  I  go  down  and 
help  at  the  turning-spit  myself,  we  are  further  off  din- 
ner than  ever.  I  will  also  pump  the  lady  dry  of  informa- 
tion in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  which,  in  such  a  Leaguer 
town,  is  always  a  useful  thing.  But  stay  where  you  are, 
my  lady  Claire,  and  keep  the  door  open.  You  will  smell 
burnt  fat,  but  the  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries  will  be 
with  you  in  as  many  jumps  of  a  grasshopper  whenever 
you  want  him.  You  have  only  to  call,  and  lo,  you  have 
me!" 

When  Jean  had  disappeared  to  do  double  duty  as  spy 
and  kitchen-drudge  beneath,  Claire  went  to  the  window 
which  looked  out  upon  the  market-place.  From  beneath 
in  the  kitchen  she  could  hear  shouts  of  laughter  climb  up 
and  die  away.  She  knew  that  Jean-aux-Choux  was  at 
his  tricks,  and  that,  with  five  minutes'  grace,  he  could  get 
to  windward  of  any  landlady  that  ever  lived,  let  alone 
such  a  merry  plump  one  as  Madame  Celeste. 

That  dame  indeed  disliked  all  pretty  women  on  prin- 
ciple. But  she  was  never  quite  sure  whether  she  pre- 
ferred an  ugly  witty  man  who  made  her  laugh,  or  a  hand- 
some dull  man  who  only  treated  her  as  a  gentleman  ought. 
But  women — young  women  and  pretty  women — pah,  she 
could  not  abide  them!  And  by  this  we  can  guess  her 
age,  for  not  so  long  ago  she  had  been  young  and  even 
pretty  herself. 

The  tide  that  comes  in  the  affairs  of  men  is  not  nearly 


The  Wliite  Plume  49 

so  marked  as  the  ebb  which  comes  in  the  affairs  of 
women. 

Claire  stood  a  long  while  meditating,  her  eyes  follow- 
ing the  movement  of  the  market-place  vaguely,  but 
without  any  real  care  for  what  was  happening.  She 
truly  mourned  her  father,  but  she  possessed  much  of  that 
almost  exclusively  masculine  temperament  which  says 
after  any  catastrophe,  "Well,  what  is  the  next  thing  to 
be  done?" 

"I  care  nothing  about  my  mother's  people,"  she  medi- 
tated to  herself,  "but  I  would  see  her  home,  her  land, 
her  country." 

She  had  never  seen  her  father's.  But  when  he  had 
spoken  to  her  of  the  fresh  winds,  lashing  rains,  and 
driving  snows,  with  nevertheless  the  rose  blooming  in  the 
sheltered  corners  about  the  old  house  on  Christmas  Day, 
she  had  somehow  known  it  all.  But  Collioure  and  its 
sand-dunes,  the  deep  sapphire  of  the  southern  sea,  cut 
across  by  the  paler  blue  line  of  the  sky — she  could  not 
imagine  that,  even  when  the  Professor  ancT  the  Abbe 
John,  with  tears  glittering  in  their  eyes,  spoke  together 
in  the  strange  pathetic  speech  of  la  petite  patrie. 

But  she  would  like  to  see  it — the  strand  where  the 
little  Colette  had  played,  the  dunes  down  which  she  had 
slidden,  and  the  gold  and  rose  of  the  towers  of  Chateau 
Collioure,  within  which  her  mother  was  born. 

A  noise  without  attracted  her  attention.  A  procession 
was  entering  the  square.  In  the  midst  was  a  huge  coach 
with  six  mules,  imported,  equipage  and  all,  from  Spain. 
An  outrider  in  the  episcopal  livery  was  mounted  on  each 
mule,  while  running  footmen  scattered  the  market-stalls 
and  salad-barrows  like  the  passage  of  a  sudden  strong 
wind. 

There  was  also  great  excitement  down  below  in  the 


50  The  White  Plume 

Golden  Lark.  The  kitchen  emptied  itself,  and  Madame 
Celeste  stopped  hastily  to  pin  a  bow  of  ribbons  to  her 
cap,  unconscious  that  a  long  smear  of  sooty  grease 
decorated  one  side  of  her  nose.  The  Bishop's  carriage 
was  coming  in  state  to  the  Golden  Lark!  There  could 
not  be  the  least  doubt  of  it.  And  the  Bishop  himself 
was  within,  that  holy  man  who  so  much  more  willingly 
handled  the  sword-hilt  than  the  crozier — Bishop  Pierre- 
fonds  of  Orleans,  certain  archbishop  and  possible  car- 
dinal, a  stoop  of  the  League  in  all  the  centre  of  France. 

Yes,  he  was  conveying  home  his  guests  in  state.  He 
stepped  out  and  stood  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the 
house,  a  right  proper  prelate,  giving  them  in  turn  his 
hand  as  they  stooped  to  kiss  his  amethyst  ring.  Then, 
seeing  over  the  Abbe  John's  bowed  head  the  lady  of  the 
house,  he  called  out  heartily  to  her  (for  he  was  too 
great  to  be  haughty  with  any),  "Mistress  Celeste,  mind 
you  treat  these  gentlemen  well.  It  is  not  every  day  that 
our  good  town  of  Orleans  holds  at  once  the  light  of  the 
Sorbonne,  its  mirror  of  eloquence,  and  also  the  nephew 
of  my  Lord  Cardinal  of  the  Holy  League,  John  d'Albret, 
claimant  at  only  twenty  removes  to  the  crown  of 
France." 

"Pshaw,"  muttered  the  Abbe  John  wearily,  "I  wish  the 
old  fool  would  go  away  and  let  us  get  to  dinner !" 

For,  indeed,  at  the  Palace  he  had  listened  to  much  of 
this. 

The  hostess  of  the  Golden  Lark  conducted  her  two 
guests  upstairs  as  if  to  the  sound  of  trumpets.  She 
gathered  her  skirts  and  rustled  like  the  poplar  leaves  of 
an  entire  winter  whisking  about  the  little  Place  Royale 
of  Orleans.  The  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne  had  suddenly 
sunk  into  the  background.  Even  the  almighty  Duke  of 
Guise  was  no  better  than  a  bird  in  the  bush.  While  here 


The  White  Plume  51 

— well  in  hand,  and  hungry  for  an  honest  Golden  Lark 
dinner — was  a  real,  hall-marked,  royal  personage, 
vouched  for  by  a  bishop,  and  still  more  by  the  bishop's 
carriage  and  outriders!  It  was  enough  to  turn  the 
head  of  a  wiser  woman  than  Madame  Celeste  Gillifleur. 

"And  is   it  really  true?"  demanded  Claire  Agnew. 

"Is  what  true,  my  dear  lady  ?"  said  the  Abbe  John,  very 
ungraciously  for  him.  For  he  thought  he  would  have 
to  explain  it  all  over  again. 

"That  you  are  a  near  heir  to  the  throne  of  France?" 

The  Abbe  John  clapped  his  hands  together  with  a  ges- 
ture of  despair. 

"Just  as  much  as  I  am  the  Abbe  John  and  a  holy  man," 
he  cried;  "it  pleases  them  to  call  me  so.  Thank  God, 
I  am  no  priest,  nor  ever  will  be.  And  as  for  the  crown 
of  France — Henry  of  Valois  is  not  dead,  that  ever  I 
heard  of.  And  if  he  were,  I  warrant  his  next  heir  and  my 
valiant  cousin,  Henry  of  Navarre,  would  have  a  word  to 
say  before  he  were  passed  over !" 

"But,"  said  the  Professor  of  Eloquence,  smiling,  "the 
Pope  and  our  wise  Sorbonne  have  loosed  all  French  sub- 
j  ects  from  paying  any  allegiance  to  a  heretic !" 

"By  your  favour,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  think 
both  made  a  mistake  for  which  they  will  be  sorry.  Also 
I  heard  of  a  certain  professor  who  voted  boldly  for  the 
Bearnais  in  that  Leaguer  assembly,  and  who  found  it 
convenient  to  go  see  his  mother  next  day,  lest  he  should 
find  himself  one  fine  morning  shortened  by  a  head,  all 
for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  Holy  League !" 

Doctor  Anatole  laughed  at  his  pupil's  boldness. 

"You  are  out  of  disciplinary  bounds  now,"  he  said, 
"and  as  you  are  too  old  to  birch,  I  must  e'en  let  you 
chatter.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  Bishop's  sudden 
cordiality?" 


52  The  White  Plume 

"Oh,"  said  the  Abbe  John,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation, 
"these  Leaguers  are  always  getting  maggots  in  their 
brains.  If  my  mother  had  been  my  father — if  I  had 
been  a  Bourbon  instead  of  a  d'Albret — if  Henry  the 
Bearnais  had  been  in  my  shoes  and  I  in  his — if — if — any 
number  of  'if's' — then  there  might  be  something  in  this 
heir-to-the-crown  business.  But  the  truth  is,  they  are  at 
their  wits'  end  (which  is  no  long  distance  to  travel).  The 
Demon  of  the  South,  our  good,  steady-going  King  of 
Spain,  drives  them  hard.  They  dare  not  have  him  to 
rule  over  them,  with  his  inquisitors,  his  blazing  heretic 
fires,  and  the  rest  of  it.  Yet  it  is  a  choice  between  him 
and  the  Huguenot,  unless  they  can  find  a  true  Catholic 
king.  The  Cardinal  Bourbon  is  manifestly  too  old, 
though  one  day  even  he  may  serve  to  stop  a  gap.  The 
Duke  of  Guise  may  be  descended  from  the  Merovingians 
or  from  Adam,  but  in  either  case  his  family-tree  is  not 
convincing.  It  has  too  many  branches — too  few  roots! 
So  the  plotters — my  good  uncle  among  them — are  look- 
ing about  for  some  one — any  one — that  is,  not  a  Guise, 
nor  yet  a  Huguenot,  who  may  serve  their  turn.  His 
Grace  of  Orleans  thinks  I  may  do  as  well  as  another. 
That  is  all — only  one  Leaguer  maggot  the  more." 

"And  must  we,  then,  always  say  'Your  Royal  Highness' 
or  'Your  Serenity'  when  we  kiss  your  hand — which  shall 
it  be  ?"  Claire  asked  the  question  gravely. 

"I  had  much  rather  kiss  yours,"  said  the  heir  to  a 
throne,  bowing  with  equal  gravity ;  "and  as  for  a  name 
— why,  I  am  plain  John  d'Albret,  at  your  service !" 

He  doffed  his  cap  as  he  spoke,  and  the  Professor  noted 
for  the  first  time,  with  a  touch  of  jealousy,  that  he  was 
a  comely  lad  enough — that  is,  if  he  had  not  been  so  lu- 
dicrously young.  The  Professor  (who  was  not  a  philos- 
opher for  nothing)  noted  the  passing  twinge  of  jeal- 


The  White  Plume  53 

ousy  as  a  sign  that  he  was  growing  old.  Twenty  years 
ago  he  might  have  been  tempted  to  Break  his  pupil's 
head  for  a  presumptuous  jackanapes,  or  challenge  him  to 
a  bout  at  the  small  swords,  but  jealousy — pah,  Anatole 
Long  thought  himself  as  good  as  any  man — always  ex- 
cepting the  Bearnais — where  the  sex  was  concerned. 

It  was  a  good  and  substantial  supper  to  which  they  sat 
down.  The  cookery  did  credit  to  the  handicraft  of 
Madame  Celeste,  especially  the  salmon  steaks  done  in 
parsley  sauce,  and  the  roast  capon  stuffed  with  butter, 
mint,  and  bread-crumbs.  The  wine,  a  white  Cote  Rotie, 
went  admirably  with  the  viands.  The  Professor  and 
Claire  had  but  little  appetite,  but  the  eyes  of  the  land- 
lady were  now  upon  the  Abbe  John  alone.  His  plate  was 
scarce  empty  before  it  was  mysteriously  refilled.  His 
wine-glass  found  itself  regularly  replenished  by  the  fair 
plump  hands  of  Madame  Celeste  herself.  All  went  merry 
as  a  marriage-bell,  and  Jean-aux-Choux,  seated  a  little 
way  below  the  salt,  and  using  his  dagger  as  an  entire  table 
equipment,  worked  his  way  steadily  through  everything 
within  his  reach.  For  though  the  Fool  of  the  Three 
Henries  held  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  sacred  from  his 
bitter  tongue  when  in  the  exercise  of  his  profession,  he 
equally  let  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  (or  even  under  the 
earth)  interfere  with  his  appetite.  He  explained  the 
matter  thus: 

"I  have  heard  of  men  living  from  hand  to  mouth,"  he 
told  Claire;  "for  twenty  years  I  have  lived  from  table 
to  mouth — always  the  same  mouth,  seldom  twice  the  same 
table.  There  was  you,  my  little  lady,  to  be  served  first. 
And  a  hundred  times  your  father  and  I  went  hungry 
that  you  might  eat  your  milk-sop  hot  a-nights.  While, 
if  I  could,  I  would  cheat  my  master  as  to  what  remained, 
his  being  the  greater  need." 


54  The  White  Plume 

"Good  Jean!"  said  Claire,  gently  reaching  out  to  pat. 
his  shaggy  head.  The  long-armed  jester  sfrook  a  little 
and  went  pale  under  her  touch,  which  was  the  stranger, 
seeing  that  with  a  twist  of  his  shoulders  he  could  throw 
off  the  clutch  of  a  strong  man. 

Such  were  the  three  with  whom  Claire  travelled  south- 
ward, in  an  exceeding  safety,  considering  the  disturbed 
time.  For  any  of  them  would  have  given  his  life  to 
shield  her  from  harm,  though  as  yet  Jean-aux-Choux 
was  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  knew  it.  And  with 
him  it  was  a  matter  of  course. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  REBELLION  OF  HERODIAS'S 
DAUGHTER 

"AND  I  suppose  I  am  to  bait  the  trap,  as  usual?" 

"You  forget,  Valentine,  that  I  am  your  uncle  and  a 
grandee  of  Spain." 

It  was  the  usual  beginning  of  their  quarrels,  of  which 
they  had  had  many  as  they  posted  along  the  Bordeaux 
road  Pariswards.  The  Marquis  Osorio  was  travelling  on 
a  secret  mission  to  Paris,  a  mission  which  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  crowned  and  anointed  King  of  France,  now 
in  uncertain  refuge  at  Blois. 

King  Philip  had  sent  for  him,  and  the  Demon  of  the 
South  had  been  in  good  humour  when  he  gave  the  stout 
Leonese  gentleman  his  instructions.  He  had  just  heard 
of  the  Day  of  Barricades,  and  the  success  of  the  Duke 
of  Guise. 

The  Marquis  had  stood  up  before  the  master  of  two 
worlds,  bronzed,  hale  and  bearded;  not  too  clever,  but 
just  shrewd  enough  to  please  the  King,  and  certainly 
indomitable  in  doing  what  he  was  told.  He  had  very 
much  the  air  of  a  free  man  and  good  subject,  with  his 
flat  travelling  cap  in  one  hand  and  the  fingers  of  the 
other  gripped  staunchly  about  his  sword-hilt. 

"The  iron  is  hot  on  the  anvil,"  said  the  King,  "strike, 
Osorio !  It  is  a  good  job  that  the  Duke  of  Err  is  out  of 
the  way.  The  pressure  of  the  times  was  too  much  for 
him.  His  poor  old  brain  rocked.  His  Duchess  has 
taken  him  off  somewhere  to  feed  with  spoon-meat. 


56  The  White  Plume 

Olivarez,  whom  I  have  sent  to  follow  him,  will  give  you 
no  trouble.  He  will  occupy  himself  with  King  Henri 
and  the  Medici  woman.  The  League  and  Guise — these 
are  your  game — especially  Guise.  I  suspect  him  to  be 
a  wind-bag,  but  put  him  under  your  arm,  and  the  wind 
in  him  will  bravely  play  our  music,  like  a  pair  of  Savoy- 
ard bagpipes.  And  hark  ye,  Osorio,  listen  to  the  Jesuit 
fathers,  especially  Mariana —  a  very  subtle  man,  Mari- 
ana, after  mine  own  heart.  And  also"  (here  he  sank  his 
voice  to  something  mysterious),  "above  all  take  with  you 
your — your  niece — Valentine  ?" 

"Valentine  la  Nina!"  ejaculated  the  King's  represen- 
tative, with  a  quick,  startled  look  at  his  master. 

"Even  so,"  said  Philip,  casting  his  eyes  through  the 
slit  behind  the  high  altar  of  the  Escorial  to  see  what  the 
priests  were  doing ;  "even  so ;  our  Holy  Mother  Church 
is  in  danger;  and  if  any  love  father  or  mother,  son  or 
daughter,  more  than  her,  he  is  not  worthy  of  her  I" 

So  by  royal  command  Valentine  la  Nina  rode  north- 
ward with  her  uncle,  and  though  these  two  loved  one 
another,  they  wrangled  much  by  the  way. 

Claire  and  her  cavalcade  were  reaching  Blois  when 
the  uncle  and  niece  entered  Angers  by  the  Long  Bridges 
of  Ce. 

The  cause  of  the  girl's  outbreak  of  petulance  had  been 
a  harangue  of  the  envoy,  in  which  he  had  explained, 
amongst  other  things,  the  reasons  for  keeping  their  mis- 
sion a  secret.  The  King  of  France  must  not  hear  of  it, 
because  their  Philip  did  not  want  to  show  his  hand. 
Henry  of  Navarre  must  not  near  of  it,  or  he  might  send 
men  to  harry  the  Cerdagne  and  Aran.  Besides,  what 
was  the  use  of  making  a  show  in  Paris,  when  the  very 
shop-tenders  and  scullions  there  played  King  Philip's 
game?  Was  not  the  Sorbonne  packed  with  wise  doctors 


The  White  Plume  57 

all  arguing  for  Spain?  Wild  monks  and  fanatic  priests 
proclaimed  her  as  the  only  possible  saviour  of  the  Faith. 
At  the  back  of  Guise  stood  King  Philip.  Remained 
therefore  (according  to  the  envoy)  to  push  Guise  for- 
ward, to  use  him,  to  empty  him,  and  then — let  the  Valois 
and  the  Medici  have  their  will  of  him.  There  was  no  rea- 
son for  Spain  to  appear  in  the  matter  at  all.  Guise  must 
be  induced  to  go  to  Blois,  and — his  enemies  would  do  the 
rest. 

It  was  then  that  Valentine  la  Nina  burst  forth  in  in- 
dignation. 

She  would  not  be  the  lure,  she  said,  even  for  a  King 
— a  bait  dangled  before  an  honest  man's  eyes — no,  not 
even  for  her  uncle ! 

"I  am  an  Osorio,"  the  envoy  answered  her  sternly,  "the 
head  of  the  family,  you  can  surely  trust  me  that  nothing 
shall  be  asked  of  you  which  might  cast  a  stain  on  the 
name " 

"Not  more  than  was  asked  of  my  mother!"  she  re- 
torted scornfully,  "only  to  sacrifice  herself  and  her  chil- 
dren— a  little  thing  for  so  good  a  king — his  people's 
father !" 

"And  for  the  Faith !"  said  the  Marquis,  hastily,  as  if 
to  escape  discussion.  "Listen,  Valentine!  The  famous 
Father  of  Gesu,  Mariana,  will  be  in  Paris  before  us. 
He  has  been  reporting  to  the  King,  and  he  it  is  who  has 
asked  for  your  presence.  None  can  serve  the  Church  so 
well  as  you." 

"I  know — I  know,"  cried  the  girl,  "fear  not,  I  have 
been  well  drilled.  My  mother  taught  me  that  the  whims 
of  men  were  to  be  called  either  high  policy  or  holy 
necessity.  It  little  matters  which ;  women  have  to  be 
sacrificed  in  either  case.  Let  us  ride  on  to  Paris,  Uncle 
Osorio,  and  say  no  more  about  it !" 


58  The  White  Plume 

They  lighted  down  in  the  empty  courtyard  of  the 
Spanish  ambassador's  house,  which  was  next  to  the  hotel 
of  the  Duke  of  Guise.  A  shouting  crowd  had  pursued 
them  to  their  lodging.  For  the  Spaniards  were  popular 
in  the  city,  and  the  arrival  of  so  fine  a  cavalcade  had 
rightly  enough  been  interpreted  to  mean  the  adherence 
of  Philip  of  Spain  to  the  new  order  of  things. 

"Had  Spain  been  for  the  King,  this  envoy  would  have 
hied  him  to  Blois,"  said  De  Launay,  the  old  Provost  of 
the  Merchants.  "But  since  Philip  sends  his  ambassador 
direct  to  the  good  city  of  Paris,  why,  then  it  follows 
that  he  is  of  the  mind  to  put  down  Valois,  to  set  aside 
Navarre,  and  to  help  us  to  crown  our  only  true  king,  the 
King  of  Paris  and  of  France,  the  King  of  the  Faith,  and 
of  his  people's  hearts — Guise,  the  good  Guise !" 

Because,  even  thus  early,  the  habit  of  municipal  elo- 
quence had  been  formed  and  its  pattern  set  for  all  the 
ages,  De  Launay  was  considered  a  good  practitioner. 

The  windows  of  Valentine  Osorio's  chambers  looked 
on  the  garden  of  the  Hotel  of  Guise — a  shady  orchard 
close  where  in  the  evening  the  Duke  often  walked  with 
his  gentlemen,  and  especially  with  his  handsome  young 
brother,  the  Duke  of  Bar. 

On  an  evening  of  mackerel  cloud,  pearl-grey  am!  flaky 
gold  vaulting  so  high  overhead  that  the  sky  above  the 
small  smokeless  Paris  of  1588  seemed  infinite,  Valentine 
sat  gossiping  with  her  maid  Salome. 

To  them,  with  the  slightest  preface  of  knocking,  light 
as  a  bird,  entered  a  priestly  figure  in  the  sombre  robes 
of  the  Society  of  Jesus — a  little  rosy-cheeked  man, 
plump  and  dimpled  with  good  living,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
good  nature. 

But  at  the  sight  of  him  a  nervous  shudder  passed 
through  the  body  of  the  young  girl.  So  in  a  school, 


The  White  Plume  59 

when  the  master  returns  before  his  time,  playing  scholars 
draw  unwillingly  with  downcast,  discontented  eyes  to 
sterner  tasks.  Yet  the  Jesuit  was  kindly  and  tolerant  in 
manner,  prodigal  of  smile  and  compliment.  There  was 
nothing  of  the  inquisitor  about  the  famous  Father  Mari- 
ana, historian  and  secret  politician. 

"Fairer  than  ever,  Mistress  Valentine,"  he  murmured, 
after  he  had  exchanged  a  glance  with  the  maid  Salome. 
"Ah,  the  blessed  thing  which  is  beauty  when  used  for 
sanctified  ends !  Seldom  is  it  thus  used  in  this  world  of 
foolish  women !  But  you  are  wise.  The  Gesu  are  under 
deep  obligations,  and  the  King — the  King — ah,  he  will 
not  forget.  He  has  sent  you  hither,  and  has  commis- 
sioned me  to  speak  with  you.  Your  good,  your  excellent 
uncle,  Osorio,  knoAvs  some  part  of  King  Philip's  plans, 
but  not  all — no,  not  all.  He  is  too  blunt  an  instrument 
for  such  fine  work.  But  you  can  understand,  and  shall !" 

The  girl  struck  her  hands  together  angrily  and  turned 
upon  him. 

"Again — again!"  she  said,  "is  it  to  be  treachery 
again  ?" 

"Not  treachery,  dear  lady,"  cooed  the  father;  "but 
when  you  go  to  tickle  trout,  you  do  not  stand  on  the  bank 
and  throw  in  great  stones.  You  work  softly  under- 
neath, and  so  guide  the  fish  to  a  place  from  which  they 
cannot  escape." 

"Is  it  Guise?"  demanded  the  girl,  breaking  fiercely 
through  these  dulcet  explanations. 

"As  you  say,"  smiled  the  Jesuit;  "himself  and  no 
other." 

"And  what  is  to  be  my  particular  infamy?" 

"Child,  beware  of  your  speech,"  said  the  Jesuit ;  "there 
is  no  infamy  in  the  service  of  Holy  Church,  of  the 
Society,  and  of  your  King !" 


60  The  White  Plume 

"To  a  well-known  air !"  said  the  girl  sneeringly.  "Well, 
I  will  sing  the  song.  I  know  the  music." 

And  she  went  and  placed  herself  by  the  window  which 
overlooked  the  pleasaunce  of  the  Duke  of  Guise. 

"Salome,"  she  said,  "come  hither  and  comb  out  my 
tresses !" 

And  with  the  graceful  ease  of  strong  young  arms,  she 
pulled  out  a  tortoise-shell  pin  here  and  a  mother-of-pearl 
fastening  there  till  a  flood  of  hair  escaped,  falling  down 
her  back,  with  dark,  coppery  lights  striking  out  of  the 
duskier  coils,  and  the  lingering  sunset  illuminating  the 
ripples  of  fine-spun  gold. 

"Thus  goes  the  exercise,"  she  said  with  a  cold  anger; 
"the  Holy  Society  trains  us  well.  But  for  this,  and  all 
else,  God  will  enter  into  judgment  with  you  and  your 
like !" 

But,  heedless  of  her  words,  the  priest  was  already  stoop- 
ing and  peering  behind  the  curtain. 

"There  they  go,"  he  whispered  eagerly,  "Guise  and 
Mayenne  together,  Bar  and  the  Cardinal  behind — ah, 
there,  it  takes!  Gripped — netted — what  did  I  tell  the 
King?  He  has  his  kerchief  out.  Quick,  Valentine, 
yours!  What,  you  have  left  it  behind?  Here  is  mine. 
Twice — I  tell  you,  twice — and  your  hand  upon  your 
heart.  Ah,  he  salutes !  He  will  soon  call  upon  the  envoy 
of  the  King  of  Spain  now.  I  wager  we  shall  have  him 
here  in  the  morning  before  breakfast!  Ah,  what  news 
this  will  be  to  send  by  the  courier  to-night  to  your — to 
King  Philip !  He  will  sleep  sound,  I  warrant.  And  re- 
member, to-morrow,  speak  him  fair  when  he  comes.  All 
depends  on  that.  I  shall  not  be  far  away.  I  shall  know 
and  report  to  the  King.  It  shall  not  be  well  with  you 
otherwise.  Guise  must  go  to  Blois — to  the  King  of 
France.  He  must  take  his  gentlemen  with  him.  No  sulk- 


The  White  Plume  61 

ing  in  his  own  territories.  To  Blois,  and  face  it  out — like 
a  man." 

The  girl  rose  from  the  window  and  came  back  into  the 
chamber.  She  opened  the  door,  and  with  a  gesture  of 
proud  weariness  indicated  the  dark  corridor  without. 

"Your  turn  is  served,"  she  said ;  "now  go !" 

But  Mariana,  a  cunning  smile  on  his  face,  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Give  me  first  my  kerchief !"  he  said. 

The  girl  crushed  the  embroidered  linen  into  a  ball  in 
her  hand,  holding  it  at  her  side  and  slightly  behind. 
Then  she  threw  it  out  of  the  window  with  a  gesture  of  con- 
tempt. The  next  moment  the  door  slammed  uncere- 
moniously in  Father  Mariana's  face.  But  the  church 
historian  was  not  in  the  least  put  out.  He  laid  his  finger 
slowly  to  the  side  of  his  nose  and  smiled  stilly. 

He  descended  the  stairs  to  the  entresol,  and  there  from 
a  window  which  overhung  the  court  he  looked  forth  in 
time  to  see  the  Duke  of  Guise  stooping  to  pick  up  some- 
thing white  from  the  ground. 

He  saw  him  kiss  it  and  thrust  it  into  the  breast  of  his 
black  velvet  doublet. 

And  the  worthy  Jesuit  chuckled  softly,  saying  to  him- 
self, "There  are  things  in  this  world  which  are  cheap  even 

at  the  loss  of  my  best  broidered  kerchief !" 

*  *  *  *  # 

As  Mariana  had  foretold,  the  Duke  of  Guise  and  his 
brother,  the  young  De  Bar,  called  upon  the  Marquis 
Osorio  the  following  day.  That  morning  the  Duke  had 
made  the  life  of  his  valet  a  burden  to  him  while  dressing, 
and  he  now  appeared  gorgeous  in  a  suit  of  dark  blue 
velvet  trimmed  with  gold  lace.  A  cape  of  silk  was  over 
one  arm,  and  he  carried  Mariana's  embroidered  kerchief 
carefully  in  his  hand. 


62  The  White  Plume 

In  his  most  stately  fashion  the  Marquis  Osorio  received 
the  head  of  the  League.  He  presented  his  credentials  as 
to  a  reigning  monarch,  and  began  to  talk  of  revolu- 
tions of  Holy  Church,  concerning  the  culpable  laxness 
of  the  Pope  in  his  own  interests,  and  the  fidelity  of  the 
King  of  Spain  to  his  ideals  and  to  his  allies.  It  was 
evident,  however,  that  Guise  paid  but  scant  heed.  His 
ears  were  elsewhere.  As  for  De  Bar,  he  stared  insolently 
about  him,  now  at  the  ambassador,  now  at  the  tapestry 
on  the  walls,  and  again  and  most  often  out  at  the  win- 
dow. But  his  brother  listened,  almost  without  disguise, 
to  a  slight  noise,  which  came  occasionally  into  the  room 
from  without.  There  was,  for  instance,  the  rustling  of 
a  woman's  silken  robe  in  the  passage.  Voices  also,  that 
sounded  faint,  pleading,  expostulatory,  cut  into  the  even 
rise  and  fall  of  Castilian  diplomacy. 

"For  these  reasons  my  royal  master  judged  it  expedi- 
ent to  send  me  as  his  representative,  charged  with  — 

Guise  twisted  impatiently  this  way  and  that  in  his  black 
oaken  chair,  in  vain  efforts  to  catch  what  was  going  on 
outside.  De  Bar  observed  his  brother's  uneasiness,  and 
as  the  Lorraine  princes  went  at  that  time  in  constant 
fear  of  assassination,  it  did  not  cost  him  two  thoughts, 
even  in  the  house  of  the  Spanish  ambassador,  to  rise  and 
throw  the  door  wide  open. 

Then  through  the  wide  Romanesque  arch  of  the  audi- 
ence chamber  Valentine  Osorio  entered,  as  a  queen  comes 
into  a  throne  room. 

At  sight  of  her  the  envoy  stayed  his  speech  to  make 
the  presentation  in  form.  Guise  instantly  dropped  all 
interest  in  the  goodwill  of  King  Philip  and  his  views 
upon  state  policy.  He  crossed  over  to  the  window-seat 
where  Valentine  had  seated  herself. 

Mariana  had  followed,  and  the  next  moment  the  Mar- 


The  White  Plume  63 

quis  resumed  his  interrupted  speech,  addressing  himself 
to  the  Jesuit  and  De  Bar,  whose  ears  were  rigid  with 
listening  to  what  was  going  on  in  the  window,  but  who 
feared  his  brother  so  much  that  he  dared  not  follow  his 
movements  with  a  single  lift  of  his  eyelids. 

"My  lady,"  said  Guise,  as  he  stood  before  Valentine, 
"I  judge  that  I  have  the  privilege  of  restoring  to  you  a 
kerchief  which  you  dropped  by  accident  last  night  into 
my  garden — we  are  neighbours,  you  know." 

Valentine  la  Nina  did  not  flush  in  the  least.  She  said 
only,  "It  is  none  of  mine.  If  you  will  throw  it  behind  the 
curtain  there,  my  maid  Salome  will  see  that  it  goes  to 
the  wash." 

Guise  stood  staring  at  her,  internally  fuming  at  his 
own  stupidity  in  thus  attempting  to  force  the  situation. 

Valentine  la  Nina  was  dressed  in  a  vaporous  greenish 
lawn,  which  added  value  to  the  clearness  of  her  skin,  the 
coiled  wealth  of  her  fair  hair,  and  the  honey-coloured 
eyes  which  looked  past  the  great  Duke  as  if  he  were  no 
more  than  a  pillar  between  her  and  the  landscape. 

Manifestly  Guise  was  piqued.  He  was  a  man  of  good 
fortunes,  and  of  late  the  Parisians  had  spoiled  him.  He 
was  quite  unaccustomed  to  be  treated  in  this  fashion. 

"Countess,"  he  said  at  last,  after  long  searching  for  a 
topic,  "I  am  from  the  north  and  you  from  the  south. 
Yet  to  look  at  us,  it  is  I  who  am  the  Spaniard  and  you 
the  Frank!" 

"My  father  was  a  Flamand!"  said  Valentine  la  Nina 
calmly. 

"And,  may  I  ask,  of  what  degree?" 

"Of  a  degree  higher  than  your  own !"  said  Valentine, 
turning  her  great  eyes  indolently  upon  him. 

Guise  looked  staggered.  He  had  not  supposed  that 
the  world  held  any  such. 


64  The  White  Plume 

"Then  he  must  have  been  a  reigning  prince!"  he 
stammered. 

"Well?"  said  Valentine,  looking  at  him  with  direct 
inquiry. 

"I  had  not  understood  that  even  so  ancient  a  house 
as  the  Osorios " 

"I  never  said  that  my  father  was  an  Osorio !" 

"All !"  said  the  Duke,  "then  I  ask  your  pardon.  I  was 
indeed  ignorant." 

He  scented  mystery,  and  being  a  plain,  hard-hearted, 
cruel  man  of  the  time,  thrust  into  a  commanding  position 
by  circumstances,  he  resented  being  puzzled,  like  a  very 
justice  of  the  peace. 

"If  you  do  not  believe  me "  Valentine  began. 

"Most  noble  princess,"  he  protested,  bending  nearer  to 
her  as  she  sat  on  the  low  seat  looking  straight  up  at  him ; 
"not  once  have  I  dreamed " 

"Go  to  my  native  country  of  Leon  and  ask  the  first 
gentleman  you  meet  whether  Valentine  la  Nina  be  not 
the  honest  daughter  of  a  king.  Only  do  not,  if  you  value 
your  life,  express  such  disbelief  as  you  did  just  now,  or 
the  chances  are  that  you  will  never  again  see  fair  Lor- 
raine !" 

She  looked  about  her.  What  she  had  expected  all  along 
had  happened.  They  were  alone.  By  some  art  of  the 
Jesuit  father,  subtly  piloting  the  course  of  events,  Osorio 
had  gone  to  the  private  parlour  to  find  certain  papers. 
Mariana  and  De  Bar  had  followed  him. 

Instantly  the  girl's  demeanour  changed.  Half  rising, 
she  reached  out  her  hand  and  clutched  the  astonished 
Guise  by  the  cuff  of  his  black  velvet  sleeve. 

"Do  not  trust  the  King  of  France,"  she  whispered,  "do 
not  put  yourself  in  the  power  of  the  King  of  Spain.  Do 
not  listen  to  my  uncle,  Osorio,  who  does  his  bidding. 


i    V 


The  White  Plume  65 

Keep  away  from  Blois.  Make  yourself  strong  in  your 
own  territories — I,  who  speak,  warn  you.  There  is  but 
a  hair's  breadth  between  you  and  death.  Above  all,  do 
not  listen  to  Mariana  the  Jesuit.  Do  not  believe  him  on 
his  sworn  oath.  His  Order  seeks  your  death  now  that 
you  have  served  their  turn,  and — I  do  not  wish  harm  to 
come  to  a  brave  man." 

Had  Valentine's  eyes  been  upon  the  door  she  would 
have  seen  it  open  slightly  as  if  a  breeze  were  pushing  it. 

"And  pray,  princess,"  said  Guise,  smiling,  well  con- 
tent, "would  it  be  the  act  of  a  brave  man  thus  to  shun 
danger  ?" 

"The  lion  is  not  the  braver  for  leaping  into  the  pre- 
pared pit  with  his  eyes  open.  He  is  only  foolish !" 

Guise  laughed  easily. 

"If  I  were  to  take  you  at  your  word,  princess,"  he 
said,  "I  should  hear  no  more  of  you  in  my  dull  Lorraine. 
I  could  not  carry  you  off  to  cheer  me  at  Soissons.  But 
here  in  Paris  I  may  at  least  see  you  daily — hear  your 
voice,  or  if  no  better,  see  you  at  the  window  as  I  walk  in 
my  garden " 

"Ah,"  cried  Valentine,  thrusting  out  her  hand  hastily, 
palm  outward,  "do  not  think  of  me.  I  am  but  the  snare 
set,  the  trap  baited.  I  am  not  my  own.  I  can  love  no 
man — choose  no  man.  I  belong  to  Those  Unseen " 

She  cast  her  hand  backward  towards  Spain,  as  if  to 
indicate  infinite  malign  forces  at  work  there.  "But  I 
warn  you — get  hence  quickly,  avoid  Blois.  Do  not  trust 
the  King,  nor  any  king.  Do  not  listen  to  my  uncle 
Osorio,  and,  above  all,  do  not  listen  to  Mariana  the 
Jesuit." 

And  with  a  rapid  rustle  of  light  garments  she  was  gone. 
Guise  attempted  to  take  her  hand  in  passing,  but  it 
easily  evaded  him.  Valentine  vanished  behind  the  arras, 


66  The  White  Plume 

where  was  a  door  which  led  directly  to  the  women's  apart- 
ments. 

A  moment  Guise  stood  pulling  at  his  moustache  sourly 
enough,  ruminating  on  the  warning  he  had  received  and, 
in  the  sudden  disappointment,  half  inclined  to  profit 
by  it.  To  him  entered  the  Jesuit,  smiling  and  dimpled 
as  ever. 

"My  Lord  Duke,  I  find  you  alone,"  he  began  cour- 
teously ;  "this  is  ill  treatment  for  an  honored  guest.  Per- 
mit me " 

"That  lady?"  demanded  Guise,  brusquely,  "who  is 
she?" 

"The  niece  of  the  Marquis  Osorio,"  murmured  the 
Jesuit;  "my  old  scholar,  dear  to  me  as  the  apple  of 
mine  eye,  almost  a  daughter." 

"Is  she  of  royal  blood?"  said  Guise,  who,  though  he 
had  to  be  upon  manners  with  Valentine  herself,  saw 
no  reason  for  mincing  matters  with  a  mere  Jesuit 
scribbler. 

"As  to  that  it  were  well  to  consult  her  uncle,"  said 
Mariana,  very  softly.  "We  of  the  Society  do  not  concern 
ourselves  with  matters  purely  secular.  In  any  case,  be 
assured  that  the  family  honour  is  quite  safe  in  the  Mar- 
quis's hands !" 

"I  did  not  doubt  it,"  said  Guise,  tossing  his  silken  cape 
over  his  arm  and  evidently  about  to  take  flight.  Mariana 
accompanied  him  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  murmuring 
commonplaces,  how  that  there  would  likely  be  a  thunder- 
storm which  would  clear  the  air,  and  that  he  would 
take  it  upon  himself  to  make  the  adieux  of  his  Grace 
of  Guise  to  the  Marquis  Osorio,  his  good  friend  and 
kinsman. 

But  just  at  the  last  he  glided  in  his  dart. 

"And  by  the  way,  we  may  not  see  you  again,  unless 


The  White  Plume  67 

you  too  are  going  south.  We  start  to-morrow  for  the 
Blois,  where  the  Queen  Mother  holds  her  court.  She 
has  written  most  graciously  to  the  Countess  Valentine 
offering  her  hospitality,  and  the  gaiety  which  young  folk 
love,  among  her  maids  of  honour !" 

And  as  he  tucked  up  his  soutaine  in  order  to  remount 
the  stairs,  the  Jesuit  chuckled  to  himself.  "And  that,  I 
think,  will  do — if  so  be  I  know  the  blood  of  the  breed  of 
Guise!" 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  GOLDEN  DUKE 

THE  river  flowed  at  their  right  hand,  the  water  blue,  the 
pebbly  banks  chased  silver,  green  walls  of  wood  fram- 
ing the  picture,  and  noble  chateaux  looking  out  here 
and  there. 

Almost  audibly  Claire's  heart  beat.  She  had  seen  the 
court  of  the  King  of  Navarre,  what  time  Margaret  of 
Valois  made  Nerac  gay  for  a  whole  year  as  ever  was 
Paris  under  the  first  Francis.  But  even  there,  betwixt 
the  old  grey  chateau  on  the  hill  and  the  new  summer 
pavilion  in  the  valley,  something  of  the  warriors'  camp 
had  ever  lingered  about  that  Capua  of  the  "Bearnais." 

Besides,  Claire  had  been  young  then,  and  many  things 
she  had  not  understood — which  was  perhaps  the  better 
for  her  and  the  happier.  But  now  she  doubted  not.  The 
child  was  a  woman,  and  all  would  now  be  made  clear. 
Not  Eve,  looking  up  at  the  Eden  apple-tree  in  the  re- 
served corner  of  the  orchard,  had  more  of  certainty 
that  all  happiness  lay  in  the  tasting  of  the  first  of  these 
golden  pippins. 

Presently  they  began  to  mingle  with  the  crowd,  and 
from  under  his  shaggy  brows  the  Professor  watched  the 
gay  young  courtiers  with  unconcealed  displeasure. 

As  he  listened  to  the  quick  give-and-take  of  wit  from 
this  galliard  to  the  other,  he  murmured  to  himself  the 
words  of  the  Wise  Man,  even  the  words  of  Jesus  the  son 
of  Sirach,  "There  is  a  certain  subtlety  that  is  fine,  but  it 
is  unrighteous." 


The  White  Plume  69 

And  to  his  pupil  he  said,  "Answer  not  these  fools  ac- 
cording to  their  folly.  Your  sword's  point  will  make  a 
better  answer !  Even  I  myself " 

But  here  he  checked  himself,  as  if  he  would  have  said 
something  that  became  not  a  grave  Professor  of  the 
Sorbonne  in  the  habit  of  his  order. 

And  even  while  saying  so — lo !  in  a  moment,  the  swords 
were  out  and  flickering,  his  own  first  of  all,  the  same 
little,  thin,  snaky  sword-cane  made  in  Toledo,  supple 
as  a  reed,  which  the  Abbe  John  and  Guy  Launay  had 
returned  to  appropriate  on  the  Day  of  the  Barricades. 
John  d'Albret  stood  on  his  defence  with  an  Italian  blade, 
having  a  small  cup  to  protect  the  over-guard,  which  was 
just  coming  into  fashion  among  the  young  bloods,  while 
from  the  rear  Jean-aux-Choux  spurred  his  Flanders  mare 
into  the  riot,  waving  over  his  head  a  huge  two-handed 
sword  of  Italian  pattern,  like  those  with  which  the  Swiss 
had  harvested  the  armoured  knights  like  ripe  corn  at 
Granson  and  at  Morat. 

And  the  reason  of  the  pother  was  this. 

A  couple  of  gentlemen-cavaliers  had  approached  from 
behind,  and  descending  as  suddenly  as  hawks  into  a 
courtyard  full  of  doves  fluttering  and  pacing  each  in  his 
innocence,  had  deftly  cut  out  the  little  jennet  of  Arab 
blood  on  which  Claire  was  riding. 

Her  dark  student's  over-mantle,  descending  low  as  her 
spurs,  had  not  concealed  from  these  faithful  stewards 
of  their  master  that  the  younger  and  more  delicately 
featured  of  the  two  clerks  was  no  other  than  a  pretty 
maiden. 

"Our  great  Duke  would  speak  with  you,  Mistress," 
was  all  the  explanation  they  deigned  to  give.  And 
in  such  troubled  times  even  so  much  was  frequently 
omitted. 


70  The  White  Plume 

But  the  hawks  soon  found  out  their  mistake.  Though 
the  Professor's  sword-cane  might  have  been  safely  dis- 
regarded by  the  breast-plate  wearers,  it  was  otherwise 
with  the  huge  bell-mouthed  pistol  which  he  carried  in 
his  left  hand.  It  was  also  far  otherwise  with  the  snaky 
blade  of  the  Abbe  John,  the  daintiest  sworder  of  all  the 
Pre  des  Clercs.  The  man  at  the  left  of  Claire's  bridle- 
rein  felt  something  sting  him  just  at  the  coming  together 
of  the  head-piece  and  shoulder-plates.  Even  less  could 
the  two  captors  afford  to  disregard  Claire's  last  defender, 
when,  all  unexpectedly,  with  a  shrill  war-cry  of  "Stirling 
Brig  an*  doon  wi'  the  Papishers,"  Jean-aux-Choux 
whirled  two-handed  into  the  fray. 

The  first  blow  fell  on  the  right-hand  man.  Fair  on 
the  boss  of  his  shoulder-plate,  heavy  as  a  mace,  fell  that 
huge  six  foot  of  blade. 

The  armour  was  of  proof,  or  that  head  would  have 
been  shorn  from  his  body.  As  it  was,  the  man  fell 
senseless  from  his  horse.  Promptly  His  companion  let 
go  the  rein  of  Claire's  pony,  crying,  "Help  there,  my 
Lord  Duke!"  and  so,  wheeling  his  horse  about,  put 
speed  to  it,  and  rode  in  the  direction  of  a  group  of  gay 
knights  and  gentlemen  who,  as  it  now  appeared,  had 
been  watching  the  fray  with  some  amusement  without 
caring  to  meddle  with  it. 

Then  from  the  midst  of  the  little  crowd  there  came 
one  forth,  the  finest  and  properest  man  Claire  had 
ever  seen.  He  was  tall  and  magnificently  arrayed. 
The  cloak  over  his  light  chain-armour  was  of  dark 
crimson  and  gold,  and  the  six  enamelled  lilies  on 
his  helmet  marked  him  as  next  in  rank  to  the  princes  of 
the  blood. 

The  cavaliers  about  him  drew  their  swor3s,  and  after 
saluting,  asked  if  it  were  the  will  of  their  Lord  Duke  that 


The  White  Plume  71 

they  should  punish  these  caitiffs  who  had  so  battered 
Goulard  and  Moulinet. 

But  "My  Lord"  put  them  aside  with  an  impatient  ges- 
ture of  his  glove. 

"It  would  have  served  Goulard  and  Moulinet  right  if 
they  had  gotten  twice  as  much !"  he  said.  "They  med- 
dled in  what  did  not  concern  them." 

All  the  same,  as  he  rode  forward,  his  eyebrows,  which 
were  thick  and  barred  across,  twitched  threateningly. 
He  threw  off  his  crimson  cloak  with  an  impatient  gesture, 
and  suddenly  shone  forth  in  a  dazzling  array  of  steel 
breast-plate  and  chain  armour,  all  worked  and  dama- 
scened with  gold. 

"Epernon — Epernon — for  my  life,  Epernon !"  muttered 
the  Abbe  John  under  his  breath  to  the  Professor  of  Elo- 
quence ;  "we  could  not  have  fallen  on  worse !" 

The  King's  reigning  favourite  and  boldest  soldier  rode 
straight  up  to  them,  with  the  careless  ease  which  became 
the  handsomest  man  in  the  kingdoms  of  France  and  Na- 
varre. 

"What  have  we  here?"  he  demanded.  "A  pretty  girl, 
two  holy  men,  and  a  scarecrow !  You  are  Genevists — 
Calvin's  folk — Huguenots!  This  will  not  do;  a  fair 
maid's  place  is  in  a  king's  court.  I  will  escort  her  thither. 
My  wife  will  have  great  pleasure  in  her  society,  and  will 
make  her  one  of  her  own  or  of  the  Queen's  maids-of- 
honour.  From  what  I  hear,  her  elder  Majesty  hath  great 
need  of  such !" 

"Not  more  than  His  Majesty  has  need  of  men  of  honour 
about  him,"  cried  the  Abbe  John  fiercely — "aye,  and  has 
had  all  his  life !" 

"Hola,  young  cock-sparrow,  clad  in  the  habit  of  the 
hoodie-crow !"  said  D'Epernon,  turning  upon  him,  "from 
what  stable-heap  do  you  come  that  you  chirp  so  loud?" 


72  The  White  Plume 

"From  that  same  heap  on  which  you  serve  as  stable- 
boy,  my  Lord  Duke !"  said  the  Abbe  John. 

The  Duke's  brow  darkened.  He  put  his  hand  quickly 
to  his  gold-hilted  rapier. 

"Ah,  pray  do,"  sneered  the  Abbe  John;  "follow 
your  inclination.  Let  the  bright  steel  out.  Get  a 
man  to  hold  our  horses,  and — have  at  you,  my  good 
Gascon !" 

By  this  time  the  Duke  d'Epernon's  gentlemen  were 
spurring  angrily  forward,  but  he  halted  them  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand,  without  turning  around  in  his  saddle 
or  taking  his  eyes  off  John's  face. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  demanded,  his  brows  twitch- 
ing so  quickly  that  the  eye  could  scarce  follow  their 
movements. 

"I  am  John  d'Albret,  nephew  of  the  Cardinal  Bourbon 
and " 

"Cousin  of  the  Bearnais?"  sneered  the  Duke,  his  eye 
glittering. 

"Student  at  the  Sorbonne !"  said  the  Abbe  John  firmly. 
"All  the  same,  if  clerk  I  am,  I  am  no  poor  clerk,  and 
so  you  will  find  me — if,  waiving  my  royal  blood,  I  con- 
sent to  put  my  steel  to  yours  upon  the  sward.  Come, 
down  with  you — and  fall  on !" 

Now  the  Duke  d'Epernon  was  anything  rather  than  a 
coward.  He  made  a  motion  as  if  to  dismount,  and  there 
is  little  doubt  but  that  his  intention  was  to  match  his 
long-trained  skill  and  success  as  a  swordsman  against 
the  Abbe  John's  mastery  of  the  latest  science  of  sword- 
play  learned  in  the  Paris  salles. 

But  suddenly  D'Epernon  checked  himself.  Then  he 
laughed. 

"No,"  he  said;  "after  all,  why  should  we  fight?  We 
may  need  each  other  some  day,  and  there  is  no  honour  in 


The  White  Plume  73 

killing  a  bantam,  even  if  he  hath  a  left-hand  strain  of 
kingly  blood  in  him !" 

"Left-hand!"  cried  the  Abbe  John:  "you  lie  in  your 
throat.  My  blood  is  infinitely  more  dexter  than  your  own, 
and  I  make  better  use  of  it !  I  am  no  mignon,  at  least." 

Now  this  was  a  bitter  taunt  indeed,  and  even  the  tanned 
face  of  the  King's  warlike  favourite  flushed. 

"As  to  mignons,"  he  said,  "you  look  much  more  like  one 
yourself,  young  cockerel.  I  have  overly  many  scars  on 
my  cheeks  for  the  trade.  And  this  is,  I  presume,  your 
sister — to  judge  by  the  resemblance?"  The  Duke  turned 
to  Claire,  who  had  been  looking  at  him  with  a  certain 
involuntary  admiration.  "What,  no?  Your  niece,  you 
say,  my  good  Sorbonnist?  I  am  not  sure  but  that,  as  a 
strict  Catholic,  I  must  object.  The  age  is  scarce  can- 
onical !" 

"I  am  no  priest,"  said  Doctor  Anatole,  roughly,  for 
this  touched  him  on  the  raw.  "I  am  only  the  Professor 
of  Eloquence  attached  to  the  faculty  of  philosophy.  And 
I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  that  I  travel  with  my 
niece,  to  put  her  under  the  care  of  my  mother  at  her 
house  near  to  Collioure,  in  Roussillon." 

"What!"  cried  the  Duke,  "now  here  is  another  of  the 
suspicions  which  awake  in  the  mind  of  the  most  guileless 
of  men.  Here  we  have  a  Bourbon,  next-of-kin  to  the 
Cardinal  himself,  together  with  a  Professor  of  the 
Sorbonne  (that  hotbed  of  sedition),  travelling  towards 
the  dominions  of  the  Demon  of  the  South — of  Philip  of 
Spain!  As  a  good  subject,  how  am  I  to  know  that  you 
are  not  on  your  way  to  stir  up  another  rebellion  against 
the  King  my  master  ?" 

It  was  then  that  Claire  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"Sir,"  she  said  quietly,  but  looking  full  at  the  Duke  with 
her  eyes — dark  green  eyes,  the  colour  of  jade,  with  little 


74  The  White  Plume 

golden  flashlets  floating  about  in  them,  "I  vouch  for  my 
friends.  They  are  loyal  and  peaceful ;  I  who  speak  am  the 
only  Huguenot.  You  can  take  and  burn  me  if  you  like !" 

The  great  Duke  d'Epernon  stood  a  moment  aghast, 
as  if  the  hunted  hare  had  turned  upon  him  in  defiance. 
Then  he  slid  off  his  helmet,  and  saluted,  bareheaded. 

"Ma  belle  damoselle,"  he  said,  "you  may  be  the  niece 
of  a  Doctor  of  the  Sorbonne  and  at  the  same  time  a 
Huguenot.  These  are  good  reasons  enough  for  carrying 
you  to  the  castle  of  His  Majesty.  But  be  comforted — 
we  are  not  as  Philip  of  Spain,  our  enemy.  We  do  not 
burn  such  pretty  brave  maids  as  you !" 

It  was  then  that  Jean-aux-Choux  forced  himself  for- 
ward on  his  big  blundering  Spanish  mare,  driving  be- 
tween a  couple  of  cavaliers  and  sending  them  right  and 
left  like  ninepins. 

"Great  Duke,"  he  said,  "you  would  do  well  to  let  us 
go  on  our  way.  You  talk  much  of  His  Majesty — I  ask 
you  which.  You  have  served  the  'Bearnais' — you  will 
serve  him  again.  Even  now  you  have  cast  an  anchor  to 
windward.  It  sticks  firmly  in  the  camp  of  the  Bearnais, 
not  far  from  that  King's  tent." 

Duke  d'Epernon  turned  on  Jean-aux-Choux  his  fierce, 
dark  eyes. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  seen  you  before,  my  churl 
of  the  carroty  locks,"  he  said.  "Were  you  not  at  the 
King's  last  fooling  in  the  Louvre  ?" 

"Aye,"  said  Jean,  "that  I  was,  and  in  a  certain  window- 
seat  behind  a  certain  curtain  I  gave  your  Dukeship  a 
certain  letter " 

"It  is  enough,"  muttered  the  Duke,  waving  his  hand 
hastily.  "I  am  on  my  way  to  Angouleme,  which  is  my 
government.  Come,  all  of  you,  with  me  to  Blois,  and 
there  abide  quietly  in  a  house  till  I  return  to  salute  the 


The  White  Plume  75 

King.  The  Estates  meet  in  the  late  autumn,  and  if 
things  go  as  it  seems  likely  after  this  Day  of  the  Barri- 
cades, we  may  need  your  royal  blood,  my  excellent  Clerk 
d'Albret — your  best  wisdom,  my  good  and  eloquent  Pro- 
fessor— your  rarest  quips,  my  merry  scarecrow — and,  as 
for  you,  my  little  lady,  my  newly-wed  wife  Marguerite 
will  not  be  sorry  to  have  a  companion  so  frank  and  charm- 
ing among  the  fading  blossoms  and  over-ripe  fruit  of  the 
court  of  the  Queen-Mother !" 

"My  lord,"  said  the  Professor,  "I  fear  that  I  have  not 
time  to  wait  upon  the  King.  I  must  go  to  visit  my 
mother,  and  carry  this  maid  with  me '" 

The  Duke  smiled. 

"I  am  not  demanding  your  learned  preferences,  most 
eloquent  Professor,"  he  said;  "I  am  taking  you  into 
safe  keeping  in  the  name  of  the  King.  After  all,  I  am 
not  an  ignorant  man,  and  I  know  well  that  it  was  a  cer- 
tain Doctor  Anatole  Long  who,  in  the  full  concourse  of 
the  Sorbonne,  voted  alone  for  the  rights  of  the  Valois. 
Give  the  King,  therefore,  a  chance  of  voicing  his  thanks. 
Also,  since  the  King  is  at  Chartres  and  I  must  speed  to 
Angouleme,  I  will  leave  you  at  Blois  in  good  and  com- 
fortable keeping  with  the  young  damsel,  your  niece, 
taking  with  me  only  this  young  man,  that  he  may  see 
some  good  Leaguer  fighting.  He  hath  been,  I  dare  say, 
on  the  Barricades  himself.  It  is  permitted  to  his  age  to 
be  foolish.  But  he  has  never  yet  seen  a  full-grown,  raw- 
hide, unwashen  Catholic  Leaguer.  Let  him  come  to  the 
Angouleme  with  me,  and  I  will  warrant  to  improve  his 
sword-play  for  him.  Close  up,  gentlemen  of  my  guard ! 
To  Blois !  Ride,  accommodating  your  pace  to  mine,  as 
I  shall  do  mine  to  that  of  the  palfrey  of  the  new  lady  com- 
panion of  Marguerite  of  Foix,  whom  I  have  the  honour 
to  love!" 


76  The  White  Plume 

He  lifted  his  gloved  hand,  and  from  the  fingers  blew 
a  kiss  in  the  direction  of  the  north,  daintily  as  a  girl 
upon  a  high  terrace  over  the  sea. 

And  so  by  the  river-side,  in  the  golden  light  of  the 
afternoon,  they  rode  forward  to  Blois. 

In  the  rear  Jean-aux-Choux  continued  to  mutter  to 
himself,  trudging  heavily  along  on  his  Flanders  mare, 
laden  with  cloaks  and  provend,  "  'Tis  all  very  well — very 
well — but  what  does  his  golden  dukeship  propose  to  do 
with  me?  I  will  not  leave  my  little  mistress  alone  in 
a  strange  city,  and  with  a  man  who,  though  ten  times 
a  professor  at  the  Sorbonne,  is  no  more  tin  to  her  than 
I  am  to  this  fat-fetlocked  Flemish  brute." 

He  pondered  a  little,  dropping  gradually  behind.  But 
as  soon  as  they  had  passed  the  gates  of  the  city>5  he  guided 
his  beast  into  the  first  little  alley,  letting  the  caval- 
cade go  on,  amid  much  craning  of  necks  from  the  win- 
dows toward  the  royal  pavilion  where  D'Epernon  was 
to  lodge. 

"I  will  seek  out  Anthony  Arpajon,  that  good  man  of 
the  Faith,"  he  said.  "He  has  a  stable  down  by  the  water- 
side, and  being  a  lover  of  the  learned,  he  will  give  me 
bite  and  sup  for  teaching  him  some  scraps  of  Greek 
wherewith  to  puzzle  the  wandering  Lutheran  pastors. 
For  a  Calvinist  stark  is  Anthony,  and  only  wants  a  head- 
piece like  mine  to  be  a  clever  man.  But  he  hath  an  arm 
and  a  purse.  And  for  the  rest,  I  will  load  him  up  with 
the  best  of  Greek,  and  also  teach  him  to  read  the  Institu- 
tions of  John  Calvin,  my  first  and  greatest  master !" 

So  through  the  narrow  streets  of  Blois  he  made  his 
great  mare  push  herself  lumberingly,  crying  out  when- 
ever there  was  a  crowd  or  a  busy  street  to  cross,  "Hoo ! 
hoo!  hoo!  Make  way  for  the  King's  fool — for  Jean- 
aux-Choux — for  the  fool — -the  King's  fool !" 


CHAPTER    XI 
THE    BEST-KNOWN   FACE    IN    THE    WORLD 

JEAN-AUX-CHOTJX  dismounted  from  his  Flanders  mare 
at  the  entrance  of  a  wide  courtyard,  littered  with  coaches 
and  carriages,  the  best  of  these  being  backed  under  a 
sort  of  penthouse,  but  the  commoner  sort  set  out  in  the 
yard  to  take  the  bitter  weather  with  the  sweet.  Some 
had  their  "trams"  pitifully  uplifted  to  heaven  in  wooden 
protestation  against  such  ill-treatment;  some  wept  tears 
of  cracked  pitch  because  the  sun  had  been  too  much  with 
them.  Leathern  aprons  of  ancient  diligences  split  and 
seamed  with  alternate  rain  and  drought.  Everywhere 
there  was  a  musty  smell  of  old  cushion-stuffing.  A  keen 
whiff  of  stables  wandered  past.  Not  far  off  one  heard 
the  restless  nosing  of  horses  in  their  mangers,  and  from 
yet  another  side  came  the  warm  breath  of  kine. 

For  Master  Anthony  Arpajon  was  a  bien  man,  a  man 
of  property,  and  so  far  the  Leaguers  of  Blois  had  not 
been  able  to  prevail  against  him.  In  the  courtyard, 
stretched  at  length  on  sacks  of  chaff,  tfieir  heads  on 
their  corn-bags,  with  which,  doubtless,  on  the  morrow 
they  would  entertain  their  beasts  by  the  way,  many 
carters  and  drivers  of  high-piled  wine-chariots  were 
asleep. 

The  lower  part  of  Master  Anthony's  house  was  a  sort 
of  free  hostel,  like  the  caravanserai  of  the  East.  The 
upper,  into  which  no  stranger  was  permitted  to  enter 
on  any  pretext,  was  like  a  fortified  town. 


78  The  White  Plume 

To  the  left  of  the  entrance,  a  narrow  oblong  break  in 
the  wall  made  a  sort  of  rude  buffet.  Sections  of  white- 
aproned,  square-capped  cooks  could  be  seen  moving  about 
within.  Through  the  gap  they  served  the  simpler  hot 
meats,  bottles  of  wine,  bread,  omelettes,  and  salads  to 
the  arriving  guests.  It  was  curious  that  each,  on  going 
first  to  the  barrier,  threw  the  end  of  his  blue  Pyrenean 
waist-band  over  his  shoulder.  A  little  silver  cow-bell, 
tied  like  a  tassel  to  the  silk,  tinkled  as  he  did  so. 

For  this  was  the  chosen  sign  of  the  men  of  Beam.  All  the 
warring  Protestants,  and  especially  the  Calvinists  of  the 
south,  had  adopted  it,  because  it  was  the  symbol  of  the 
arms  of  Beam.  And  wherever  it  was  unsafe  to  wear  the 
White  Plume  of  the  hero  on  the  cap,  as  in  the  town  of 
Blois,  it  was  easy  to  tuck  the  silver  cow-bell  of  King 
Henry  under  the  silken  sash,  where  its  tinkling  told 
no  tales. 

But  among  these  wine-carriers  and  free  folk  of  the 
roads  there  was  scarcely  one  who  did  not  know  Jean-aux- 
Choux.  Yet  they  did  not  laugh  as  he  entered,  but  rather 
greeted  him  respectfully,  as  one  who  plays  well  his  part, 
though  he  came  in  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "Way 
for  the  fool  of  fools — the  fool  of  three  kings — and  not 
so  great  a  fool  as  any  one  of  them !" 

One  man  came  forward,  speaking  the  drawling  speech 
of  Burgundy,  all  liquid  "Ps"  and  slurred  "r's,"  and  with 
a  clumsy  salute  took  the  Jester's  beast.  Many  of  the 
others  rose  to  their  feet  and  made  their  reverences  ac- 
cording to  their  kind,  clumsy  or  clever.  Others  whispered 
quietly,  passing  round  the  news  of  his  arrival. 

For  the  fool  had  come  to  his  own.  He  was  no  more 
Jean-aux-Choux,  the  King's  fool,  but  Master  John  Stir- 
ling, a  Benjamin  of  the  Benjaminites,  and  pupil  of  John 
Calvin  himself. 


The  White  Plume  79 

The  white-capped  man  behind  the  bar  opened  carefully 
a  little  door,  and  as  instantly  closed  it  behind  Jean. 

He  pointed  up  a  narrow  stair  which  turned  and  was 
lost  to  sight  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall. 

"You  will  find  them  at  prayers,"  he  muttered.  "He  is 
there." 

"Kings  are  in  His  hand,"  responded  Jean-aux-Choux, 
setting  a  foot  on  the  first  worn  step  of  the  narrow  stair- 
case; "the  Lord  of  Battles  preserve  him  from  the  curs 
that  yelp  about  his  feet." 

There  came  to  Jean  a  sound  of  singing — sweet,  far 
away,  wistful,  a  singing  not  made  for  the  chanting  of 
choirs  or  the  clamour  of  organs,  but  for  folk  hiding  on 
housetops,  in  dens  and  caves  of  the  earth — soft  singing, 
with  the  enemy  deadly  and  near  at  hand.  The  burden 
of  their  melody  was  that  thirty-seventh  Psalm  which 
once  on  a  time  Clement  Marot  had  risked  his  life  to 
print. 

"  Wait  on  the  Lord  !     Meekly  thy  burden  bear; 
Commit  to  Him  thyself  and  thine  affair  ! 
In  Him  trust  thou,  and  He  will  bring  to  pass 
All  that  thou  wouldst  accomplish  and  compass. 
Thy  loss  is  gain — such  is  His  equity, 
Each  of  His  own  He  guards  eternally. 

This  lesson  also  learn — 
He  clasps  thee  closer  as  the  days  grow  stern." 

Jean  opened  the  door.  It  was  a  long,  black,  oak- 
ceiled  room  into  which  he  looked.  There  were  perhaps 
a  score  of  Huguenots  present,  all  standing  up,  with 
Marot's  little  volume  of  the  Trente  Psaumes  in  their 
hands.  A  pastor  in  Geneva  gown  and  bands  stood  at  a 
table  head,  upon  which  a  few  great  folios  had  been 
heaped  to  form  a  rude  pulpit. 

Beside  him,  not  singing,  but  holding  His  psalter  with 


80  The  White  Plume 

a  certain  weary  reverence,  was  a  man  with  a  face  the  best 
known  in  all  the  world.  And  certainly  Henry  of  Navarre 
never  looked  handsomer  than  in  the  days  when  pretty 
Gabrielle  of  the  house  of  D'Estrees  played  with  fire,  call- 
ing her  Huguenot  warrior,  "His  Majesty  of  the  Frosty 
Beard." 

Such  a  mingling  of  kindliness,  of  humour  bland  and 
finely  toleropt,  of  temper  quick  and  high,  of  glorious 
angers,  of  swift,  proud  sinnings  and  repentances  as  swift, 
of  great  eternal  destinies  and  human  frailties,  never  was 
seen  on  any  man's  face  save  this. 

It  was  "The  Bearnais" — it  was  Henry  of  Navarre  him- 
self. 

So  long  as  the  singing  went  on  Jean-aux-Choux  stood 
erect  like  the  rest.  Then  all  knelt  at  the  prayer — the 
King  also  with  them — on  the  hard  floor  under  that  low, 
black  pent-roof,  while  the  pastor  prayed  to  the  God 
of  Sabaoth  for  the  long-hoped-for  victory  of  "His  Own." 

Beside  "His  Own"  knelt  Jean-aux-Choux,  a  look  of 
infinite  solemnity  on  his  face,  while  the  grave  Genevan 
"cult"  went  quietly  on,  as  if  there  had  not  been  a 
Catholic  or  an  enemy  within  fifty  miles.  The  minister 
ceased.  The  King,  without  lingering  on  his  knees  as 
did  the  others,  rose  rapidly,  mechanically  dusting  his 
black  cloth  breeches  and  even  the  rough  carter's  stockings 
which  covered  his  shapely  calves. 

He  sighed  sadly,  as  his  keen,  quick-glancing  eyes  passed 
over  the  kneeling  forms  of  the  Huguenots.  He  did  not 
take  very  kindly  to  the  lengthy  services  and  plain-song 
ritual  of  those  whom  he  led  as  never  soldiers  had  been  led 
before. 

"  Hal  Guise  hath  the  Religion, 
While  I  need  absolution  !  " 

The  Bearnais  hummed  one  of  the  camp  songs  made 


The  White  Plume  81 

against  himself  by  his  familiar  Gascons,  which  always 
afforded  him  the  most  amusement — next,  that  is,  to  that 
celebrated  one  which  recounted  his  successes  on  other 
fields  than  those  of  war.  They  were  bold  rascals,  those 
Gascons  of  his,  but  they  followed  him  well,  and,  after  all, 
their  idea  of  humour  was  his  own. 

"Ha,  long  red-man,"  he  called  out  presently,  when 
all  had  risen  decently  from  their  knees,  "you  made  sport 
for  us  at  Nerac,  I  remember,  and  then  went  to  my  good 
brother-in-law's  court  in  the  suite  of  Queen  Marguerite. 
What  has  brought  you  here?" 

A  tall  man,  dark  and  slim,  leaned  over  and  whispered 
in  the  King's  ear. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Bearnais,  nodding  his  head,  "I  remem- 
ber the  reports.  They  were  most  useful.  But  the  fellow 
is  a  scholar,  then?" 

"He  is  of  Geneva,"  said  the  man  at  the  King's  ear, 
"and  is  learned  in  Latin  and  Greek,  also  in  Hebrew !" 

"No  wonder  he  does  his  business  with  credit" — the 
King  smiled  as  he  spoke ;  "there  is  no  fool  like  a  learned 
fool !" 

With  his  constant  good-humour  and  easy  ways  with 
all  and  sundry,  Henry  of  Navarre  stepped  forward  and 
clapped  Jean-aux-Choux  on  the  shoulder. 

"Go  and  talk  to  the  pastor,  D'Aubigne,"  said  the  King 
to  his  tall,  dark  companion ;  "I  and  this  good  fellow 
will  chat  awhile.  Sit  down,  man.  I  am  not  Harry  of 
Navarre  to-night,  but  Waggoner  Henri  in  from  Coutras 
with  some  barrels  of  Normandy  cider.  Do  you  happen 
to  know  a  customer?" 

"Ay,  that  do  I,"  answered  Jean-aux-Cfioux,  fixing  his 
eyes  on  the  strong,  soldierly  face  of  the  Bearnais,  "one 
who  has  just  arrived  in  this  town,  and  may  have  some 
customs'  dues  to  levy  on  his  own  liquor." 


82  The  White  Plume 

"And  who  may  that  be?"  demanded  the  King. 

"The  Governor  of  Normandy,"  Jean  answered — "he 
and  no  other !" 

"What — D'Epernon?"  cried  the  Bearnais,  really  taken 
by  surprise  this  time. 

"I  have  just  left  his  company,"  said  Jean ;  "he  has  with 
him  many  gentlemen,  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  at  the 
Sorbonne,  the  nephew  of  the  Cardinal  Bourbon " 

"What,  my  cousin  John,  the  pretty  clerk?"  laughed 
Henry. 

"He  drives  a  good  steel  point,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux ; 
"it  were  a  pity  to  make  him  a  holy  water  sprinkler.  I 
was  too  ugly  to  be  a  pastor.  He  is  too  handsome  for  a 
priest !" 

"We  will  save  him,"  said  the  Bearnais ;  "when  our  poor 
old  Uncle  of  the  Red  Hat  dies,  they  will  doubtless  try 
to  make  a  king  of  this  springald." 

"He  vows  he  would  much  rather  carry  a  pike  in  your 
levies,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux.  "It  is  a  brave  lad.  He 
loves  good  hard  knocks,  and  from  what  I  have  seen,  also 
to  be  observed  of  ladies !" 

The  Bearnais  laughed  a  short,  self -contemptuous  laugh. 
"I  fear  we  shall  quarrel  then,  Cousin  John  and  I," 
he  said;  "one  Bourbon  is  enough  in  a  camp  where  one 
must  ride  twenty  miles  to  wave  a  kerchief  beneath  a 
balcony !" 

"Also,"  continued  Jean-aux-Choux,  "there  is  with 
them  my  dear  master's  daughter,  Mistress  Claire " 

"What,  Francis  Agnew's  daughter?"  The  King's 
voice  grew  suddenly  kingly. 

Jean  nodded. 

"Then  he  is  dead — my  Scot — my  friend?  When?  How? 
Out  with  it,  man!" 

"The  Leaguers  or  the  King's  Swiss  shot  him  dead  the 


The  Wliite  Plume  83 

Day  of  the  Barricades — I  know  not  which,  but  one  or  the 
other!" 

The  fine  gracious  lines  of  the  King's  face  hardened. 
The  Bearnais  lifted  his  "boina,"  or  flat  white  cap,  which 
he  had  resumed  at  the  close  of  worship,  as  was  his  right. 

"They  shall  pay  for  this  one  day,"  he  said;  "Valois, 
King,  and  Duke  of  Guise — what  is  it  they  sing?  Some- 
thing about 

'  The  Cardinal  and  Henry  and  Mayenne,  Mayenne  ! ' 

If  I  read  the  signs  of  the  times  aright,  the  King  of 
France  will  do  Henry  of  Guise's  business  one  of  these 
days,  while  I  shall  have  Mayenne  on  my  hands.  At  any 
rate,  poor  Francis  Agnew  shall  not  go  unavenged,  wag 
the  world  as  it  will." 

These  were  not  the  highest  ideals  of  the  Nazarene.  But 
they  suited  a  warring  Church,  and  Henry  of  Navarre 
only  voiced  what  was  the  feeling  of  all,  from  D'Aubigne 
the  warrior  to  the  pastor  who  sat  in  a  corner  by  himself, 
thumbing  his  little  Geneva  Bible.  There  was  no  truce 
in  this  war.  The  League  or  the  Bearnais !  Either  of 
the  two  must  rule  France.  The  present  king,  Henry  of 
Valois,  was  a  merry,  sulky,  careless,  deceitful,  kindly, 
cruel  cipher — the  "man-woman,"  as  they  named  him,  the 
"gamin"-king.  He  laughed  and  jested — till  he  could 
safely  thrust  his  dagger  into  his  enemy's  back.  But  as 
for  his  country,  he  could  no  more  govern  it  than  a  puppet 
worked  by  strings. 

"And  this  girl?"  said  the  King,  "is  she  of  her  father's 
brood,  strong  for  the  religion,  and  so  forth?" 

"She  is  young  and  innocent — and  very  fair !" 

The  eyes  of  the  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries  met  those 
of  the  Bearnais  boldly,  and  the  outlooking  black  eyes 
flinched  before  them. 


84  The  White  Plume 

"These  Scottish  maids  are  not  as  ours,"  said  the  King, 
perhaps  in  order  to  say  something,  "yet  I  think  she  was 
with  her  father  in  my  camp,  and  shared  his  dangers." 

"To  the  last  she  held  up  his  dying  head!"  said  Jean- 
aux-Choux.  And  quite  unexpectedly  to  himself,  his  eyes 
were  moist. 

"And  where  at  this  moment  is  Francis  Agnew's  daugh- 
ter?" said  the  King.  Then  he  added,  without  apparent 
connexion,  "He  was  my  friend !" 

But  his  intimates  understood  the  word,  and  so,  though 
a  poor  fool,  did  Jean-aux-Choux.  Instinctively  he  held 
out  his  hand,  as  he  would  have  done  to  a  brother-Scot 
of  his  degree. 

The  King  clasped  it  heartily,  and  those  wEo  were  nearest 
noticed  that  his  eyes  also  had  a  shine  in  them. 

"What  a  man!"  whispered  D'Aubigne  to  his  nearest 
neighbour.  "Sometimes  we  of  the  Faith  are  angry  with 
him,  and  then,  with  a  pat  on  the  cheek,  or  a  laugh,  we 
are  his  children  again.  Or  he  is  ours,  I  know  not  which ! 
Guise  shakes  hands  all  day  long  to  make  his  dukeship 
popular,  but  in  spite  of  himself  his  lips  curl  as  if  he 
touched  a  loathsome  thing.  Valois  presents  his  hand  to 
be  kissed  as  if  it  belonged  to  some  one  else.  But  our 
Bearnais — one  would  think  he  never  had  but  one  friend 
in  the  world,  and " 

"That  this  Scots  fool  is  the  man !" 

"Hush,"  whispered  D'Aubigne,  "he  is  no  fool,  this 
fellow.  He  was  of  my  acquaintance  at  Geneva.  In  his 
youth  he  knew  John  Calvin,  and  learned  in  the  school  of 
Beza.  The  King  does  well  to  attach  him !  Listen !" 

Jean-aux-Choux  was  certainly  giving  the  King  his 
money's  worth.  Henry  was  pacing  up  and  down,  his 
fingers  busily  and  unconsciously  arranging  his  beard. 

"I  have  not  enough  men  to  take  him  prisoner,"  he  said ; 


The  White  Plume  85 

"this  ex-mignon  D'Epernon  is  a  slippery  fish.  He  will 
deal  with  me,  and  with  another.  But  if  he  could  sell 
my  head  to  my  Lord  of  Guise  and  these  furious  wool- 
staplers  of  Paris,  he  would  think  it  better  worth  his 
while  than  the  off-chance  of  the  Bearnais  coming  out  on 
top!" 

He  pondered  a  while,  with  the  deep  niche  of  thought 
running  downward  from  mid-brow  to  the  bridge  of  his 
nose,  which  they  called  "the  King's  council  of  war." 

"The  girl  is  to  be  left  in  Blois,"  he  muttered,  as  if  to 
sum  up  the  situation,  "with  this  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne 
— an  old  man,  I  suppose,  and  a  priest.  Very  proper,  very 
proper!  My  cousin,  John  Jackanapes,  the  young  ex- 
Leaguer,  goes  to  Court.  They  will  make  a  Politique  of 
him,  a  Valois-divine-right  man — good  again,  for  after 
this  Valois-by-right-divine  (save  the  mark!)  comes  not 
Master  John  d'Albret,  but — the  Bearnais!  Yet — I  do 
not  know — perhaps,  after  all,  he  had  better  come  with 
me.  Then  I  shall  hold  one  hostage  the  more!  Let  me 
see — let  me  see!" 

Here  Jean-aux-Choux,  who  had  at  that  time  no  great 
love  for  the  Abbe  John,  but  was  an  honest  man,  protested. 

"The  time  for  crowning  and  seeking  crowns  is  not  yet," 
he  said;  "but  the  lad  they  call  Abbe  John,  though  he 
fought  a  little  on  the  Barricades,  as  young  dogs  do  in  a 
fray  general,  means  no  harm  to  Your  Majesty,  and  will 
fight  for  you  better  than  many  who  protest  more !" 

"I  believe  you — I  believe  you !"  said  Henry.  "If  there 
is  aught  but  eyes-making  and  laying-on  of  blows  in 
him,  I  shall  soon  find  it  out,  and  he  shall  not  trail  a  pike 
for  long.  He  shall  have  his  company,  and  that  of  the 
choicest  of  my  army." 

Suddenly  the  pastor  sprang  up.  He  had  a  message  to 
deliver,  and  being  of  the  prevailing  school  of  the  mystics, 


86  The  Wliite  Plume 

he  put  it  in  the  shape  of  a  vision,  as,  indeed,  it  had  ap- 
peared to  him. 

"I  see  the  earth  dissolved,"  he  cried,  "the  elements  go- 
ing up  in  a  flaming  fire,  the  inhabitants  tormented  and 
destroyed " 

"Thank  God !  Thank  God !"  responded  the  deep,  domi- 
nating voice  of  Jean-aux-Choux. 

The  King  requested  to  know  the  meaning  of  this  un- 
expected thankfulness  for  universal  destruction. 

"Anything  to  settle  the  League!"  said  Jean-aux 
Choux. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE    WAKING   OF   THE  BEARNAIS 

JEAN-AUX-CHOUX'S  deflection  from  his  course  created 
little  remark  and  no  sensation  in  the  brilliant  company 
which  entered  Blois  in  the  wake  of  the  royal  favourite. 
D'Epernon  had  dismissed  him  from  his  mind.  The  Abbe 
John  and — oh,  shame ! — the  doctor  of  the  Sorbonne  were 
both  thinking  of  Claire.  So  it  came  to  pass,  in  revenge, 
that  only  Claire  of  all  that  almost  royal  cavalcade  spared 
a  thought  to  poor  Jean-aux-Choux. 

As,  however,  Claire  was  the  only  one  concerning  whom 
Jean  cared  an  apple-pip,  he  would  have  been  perfectly 
content  had  he  known. 

As  it  was, he  waited  till  the  Bearnais  had  betaken  himself 
to  his  slumbers  in  Anthony  Arpajon's  best  green-tapes- 
tried chamber,  and  then  sailed  out, hooded  and  robed  like  a 
Benedictine  friar,  to  make  his  observations.  In  the  town 
of  Blois,  as  almost  anywhere  else  in  central  and  southern 
France,  the  ex-student  of  Geneva  knew  his  way  blind- 
fold. He  skirted  the  bare  rocky  side  of  the  castle,  where- 
on now  stands  the  huge  pavilion  of  Gaston  of  Orleans. 

"They  will  not  come  and  go  by  the  great  door,"  he 
said,  "but  there  is  the  small  postern,  by  which  it  is  the 
custom  to  make  exits  and  entrances  when  Court  secrets 
are  in  the  wind." 

Accordingly,  Jean  placed  himself  behind  a  great  hedge 
which  marked  the  limits  of  the  royal  domain.  The  city 
hummed  beneath  him  like  a  hive  of  bees  aroused  untime- 
ously.  He  could  hear  now  and  then  the  voice  of  some 


88  The  White  Plume 

Leaguer  raised  in  curses  of  the  Valois  King  and  all  his 
favourites.  The  voice  was  usually  a  little  indistinct  be- 
cause of  the  owner's  having  too  frequently  considered  the 
redness  of  the  Blesois  wine. 

Anon  the  curses  would  arrive  home  to  roost,  and  that 
promptly.  For  some  good  royalist,  crying  "Vive  D' 
Epernon,"  would  bear  down  upon  the  Guisard.  Then 
dull  smitings  of  combat  would  alternate  with  war-cries 
and  over- words  of  faction  songs.  Once  came  a  single 
deadly  scream,  way  for  which  had  evidently  been  opened 
by  a  knife,  and  then,  after  that,  only  the  dull  pad-pad  of 
running  feet — and  silence ! 

In  the  palace  wall  the  postern  door  opened  and  some- 
one looked  out.  It  was  closed  again  immediately. 

Jean's  eyes  strove  in  vain  to  see  more  clearly.  But  the 
windows  above,  being  brilliantly  lighted,  threw  the  pos- 
tern into  the  darkest  shadow. 

A  moment  after,  however,  four  persons  came  out — first 
two  men,  then  a  slender  figure  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  which 
Jean  knew  in  a  moment  for  that  of  his  mistress. 

"He  is  keeping  his  word,  after  all,"  muttered  Jean ;  "it 
may  be  just  as  well !" 

He  who  stepped  out  last  was  tall  and  dark,  and  turned 
the  key  in  the  lock  of  the  low  door  with  the  air  of  a  man 
shutting  up  his  own  mansion  for  the  night. 

They  went  closely  past  Jean's  hiding-place  and,  to 
his  amazement,  took  the  very  way  by  the  water-side, 
down  the  Street  of  the  Butchery,  by  which  he  had  come. 
More  wonderful  still,  they  turned  aside  without  hesitation 
— or  rather,  their  leader  did — into  the  yard  of  Anthony 
Arpajon.  Silently  Jean-aux-Choux  stalked  them.  How 
could  they  know?  Was  it  treachery?  Was  it  an  am- 
bush? At  any  rate,  it  was  his  duty  to  warn  the  Bearnais 
— that  was  evident. 


The  White  Plume  89 

But  how?  The  blue-bloused  carters  and  teamsters, 
wearing  the  silken  sashes  fringed  so  quaintly  with  silver 
bells,  were  asleep  all  about.  But  Jean-aux-Choux  darted 
from  sack  to  sack,  dived  beneath  waggons,  ran  up  stair- 
ways of  rough  wood.  And  presently,  before  the  leader 
of  the  four  had  done  parleying  with  the  white-capped 
man  behind  the  bar,  the  intruders  were  surrounded  by 
thirty  veterans  of  Henry  of  Navarre's  most  trusted 
guards.  The  chain  mail  showed  under  the  trussed  blouses 
of  the  wine-carriers.  And  D'Epernon,  looking  round, 
saw  himself  the  centre  of  a  ring  of  armed  men. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  with  superb  and  even  insolent  coolness, 
"is  it  thus  you  keep  your  watch,  you  of  the  old  Huguenot 
phalanx,  you  who,  from  father  to  son,  have  made  your 
famous  family  compact  with  death?  Here  I  find  you 
asleep  in  a  hostile  city,  where  Guise  could  rouse  a  thou- 
sand men  in  an  hour !  Or  I  myself,  if  so  minded " 

"I  think,  my  Lord  Duke,"  said  D'Aubigne,  putting 
his  sword  to  the  Duke's  breast,  "that  long  before  your 
clarion  sounded  its  first  blast,  one  fine  gentleman  might 
chance  to  find  himself  in  the  Loire  with  as  many  holes 
in  him  as  a  nutmeg-grater !" 

"It  might  indeed  be  so,  sir,"  said  the  Duke,  still 
haughtily,  "but  on  this  occasion  I  shall  literally  go 
scot-free.  Wake  your  master,  the  King  of  Navarre. 
Tell  him  that  the  Duke  of  Epernon  craves  leave  to  speak 
with  him  immediately.  He  is  alone,  and  has  come  far  and 
risked  much  to  meet  His  Majesty.  Also,  I  bid  you  say 
that  I  come  on  the  part  of  Francis  Agnew  the  Scot,  whom 
he  knows !" 

"You  bid !"  cried  D'Aubigne,  whose  temper  was  not  over 
long  in  the  grain.  "Learn,  then,  that  none  bids  me  save 
my  master,  and  he  is  neither  King's  minister  nor  King's 
minion." 


90  The  White  Plume 

"Sir,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  do  not  need  to  prove  my 
courage,  any  more  than  the  gentlemen  of  my  Lord  of 
Navarre.  At  another  time  and  in  another  place  I  am 
at  your  service.  In  the  meantime,  will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  do  as  I  request  of  you  ?  I  must  see  the  King, 
and  swiftly,  lest  I  be  missed — up  yonder !" 

"The  King  is  asleep!"  said  Anthony  Arpajon — "asleep 
in  my  best  tapestried  chamber.  He  must  not  be 
waked." 

"Harry  of  Beam  will  always  wake  to  win  a  battle  or  a 
lady's  favour,"  said  D'Epernon.  "I  can  help  him  to 
both,  if  he  will!" 

"Then  I  will  go,"  said  Anthony.  "Come  with  me,  Jean- 
aux-Choux.  Take  bare  blade  in  hand,  that  there  be  no 
treachery.  I  have  known  you  some  time  now,  Jean.  For 
these  others  there  is  no  saying !" 

So  these  two  went  up  together  to  the  King's  sleeping- 
chamber.  Anthony  knocked  softly,  but  there  was  no 
answer,  though  they  could  hear  the  soft,  regular  breath- 
ing of  the  sleeper.  He  opened  the  door  a  little.  Jean- 
aux-Choux  stood  looking  over  his  shoulder.  A  night- 
light  burned  on  the  table,  shaded  from  the  eyes  of  the 
sleeping  man  on  the  canopied  couch.  But  a  soft  circle 
of  illumination  fell  on  the  miniature  of  a  lady,  painted  in 
delicate  colours,  set  immediately  beneath  it. 

"His  mother — the  famous  Jeanne  d'Albret,"  whispered 
Anthony;  "he  loved  her  greatly.  She  was  even  as  a 
saint !" 

Queen  Jeanne  was  certainly  a  most  attractive  person, 
but  somehow,  Jean-aux-Choux  remained  a  little  incred- 
ulous. "How  shall  we  wake  him?"  asked  Anthony, 
under  his  breath. 

"Sing  a  psalm,"  suggested  Jean-aux-Choux. 

"Alas,  that  I  should  say  so  concerning  his  mother's 


The  White  Plume  91 

son,  but  from  what  I  have  seen  in  this  my  house,  I  judge 
that  were  more  likely  to  send  him  into  deeper  sleep." 

"Nay,"  said  Jean,  "  I  know  him  better — he  is  an  old 
acquaintance  of  mine.  Only  keep  well  behind  the  door 
when  he  awakes.  For  the  Bearnais  rises  ever  with  his 
sword  in  his  hand — unless  he  is  in  his  own  house,  where 
the  servants  are  at  pains  to  place  all  weapons  out  of  his 
reach.  Sing  the  Gloria,  Anthony,  and  then  he  will  rise 
very  cross  and  angry,  demanding  to  know  if  we  have 
not  sung  enough  for  one  night." 

"Ay,  the  Gloria.  It  is  well  thought  on,"  quoth  An- 
thony ;  "I  have  heard  them  tell  in  our  country  how  it  was 
his  mother's  favourite.  He  will  love  the  strains.  As  I  have 
said,  she  was  a  woman  sainted — Jeanne  the  Queen !" 

"Hum,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux,  "that's  as  may  be.  At 
all  events,  her  son,  the  Bearnais,  was  born  without  any 
halo  to  speak  of." 

"The  prayers  of  a  good  mother  are  never  wholly  lost," 
said  Anthony  sententiously. 

"Then  they  are  sometimes  a  long  while  mislaid,"  mut- 
tered Jean. 

"Shame  on  you,  that  have  known  John  Calvin  in  your 
youth,"  said  Anthony,  "to  speak  as  the  unbelieving. 
Have  you  forgotten  that  God  works  slowly,  and  that 
with  Him  one  day  is  as  a  thousand  years  ?" 

"Aye,"  said  the  incorrigible  Jean,  arguing  the  matter 
with  Scots  persistency,  "but  the  Bearnais  takes  a  good 
deal  out  of  himself.  He  is  little  likely  to  last  so  long 
as  that.  However,  let  us  do  the  best  we  can — sing !" 

So  they  sang  the  famous  Huguenot  verses  made  in  the 
desert  by  Louis-of-the-Hermitage. 

"  Or  soit  au  Pfere  tout  puissant, 
Qui  r£gne  au  ciel  resplendissant, 
Gloria  et  magnificence  !  " 


92  The  White  Plume 

The  Bearnais  turned  in  his  sleep,  muttering  restlessly. 

"Why  cannot  they  sing  their  psalms  at  proper  hours," 
he  grumbled,  "as  before  a  battle  or  on  Sunday,  leaving 
me  to  sleep  now  when  I  am  weary  and  must  ride  far  on 
the  morrow  ?" 

The  psalm  went  on.  Sleepily  the  King  searched  for 
a  bott  to  throw  in  the  direction  of  the  disturbance,  pos- 
sibly under  the  impression  that  his  sentinels  were  chant- 
ing at  their  posts — a  habit  which,  though  laudable  in 
itself,  he  had  been  compelled  to  forbid  from  a  military 
point  of  view.  The  Bearnais  discovered,  by  means  of  a 
spur  which  scratched  him  sharply,  that  his  boots  were  on 
his  feet.  He  muttered  yet  more  loudly. 

"His  morning  prayers,"  said  Anthony  in  Jean's  ear; 
"his  mother,  Jeanne  the  Queen,  was  ever  like  that.  She 
waked  with  blessing  on  her  lip — so  also  her  son." 

"I  doubt,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux. 

"Sing — gabble  less  concerning  the  Anointed  of  God," 
commanded  Anthony  Arpajon. 

And  they  sang  the  second  time. 

"  In  Sion's  city  God  is  known, 

For  her  defence  He  holds  Him  ready; 
Though  banded  kings  attack  at  dawn, 

God's  rock-bound  fortress  standeth  steady." 

This  time  the  Bearnais  stood  up  on  his  feet,  broadly 
awake.  He  did  not,  as  Jean-aux-Choux  had  foretold, 
thrust  a  sword  behind  the  arras.  Instead,  he  picked  up 
the  painted  miniature  on  which  the  little  circle  of  light 
was  falling.  He  pressed  it  a  moment  to  his  lips,  and 
then,  with  the  click  of  a  small  chain  clasping,  it  was 
about  his  neck  and  over  his  heart,  hidden  by  his  mailed 
shirt. 

"His  mother's  picture — even  from  here  methinks  I  rec- 
ognise the  features,"  asserted  the  faithful  Anthony. 


The  White  Plume  93 

"Most  touching!"  interjected  Jean-aux-Choux. 

"It  astonishes  you,"  said  Anthony  Arpajon,  "but  that 
is  because  you  are  a  stranger " 

"And  ye  would  take  me  in,"  muttered  Jean  under  his 
breath. 

"But  in  our  country  of  Beam  we  all  worship  our  moth- 
ers— with  us  it  is  a  cult." 

"I  have  noticed  it,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux.  "In  my 
country  we  have  it  also,  with  this  difference — in  Scotland 
it  is  for  our  children's  mothers,  chiefly  before  marriage." 

But  at  this  moment  they  heard  the  voice  of  the  King 
within. 

"Where  is  D'Aubigne?  Why  does  he  not  insure  quiet 
in  the  house  ?  I  have  ridden  far  and  would  sleep !  Surely 
even  a  king  may  sleep  sometimes  ?" 

"Your  Majesty,  it  is  I — Anthony  Arpajon,  the  Calvin- 
ist,  and  with  me  is  John  Stirling,  the  Scot,  called  Jean- 
aux-Choux,  the  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries." 

"And  what  does  he  want  with  this  Henry — does  he  jest 
by  day  and  sing  psalms  by  night  ?" 

"I  have  to  inform  Your  Majesty,"  said  Jean-aux- 
Choux,  "that  the  Duke  d'Epernon  is  below,  and  would 
see  the  King  of  Navarre." 

Now  there  was  neither  blessing  nor  cursing.  The 
Bearnais  did  not  kiss  the  picture  of  his  mother.  A  scab- 
bard clattered  on  the  stone  floor,  was  caught  deftly,  and 
snapped  into  its  place  on  his  belt. 

"Where  is  my  other  pistol?  Ah,  I  remember — D'Au- 
bigne took  it  to  clean.  Lend  me  one  of  yours,  Jean- 
aux-Choux.  Is  it  primed  and  loaded?" 

"He  is  with  my  lady  mistress,  the  daughter  of  Francis 
the  Scot,  and  with  him  are  only  the  Sorbonne  doctor  and 
your  cousin  D'Albret  for  all  retinue." 

"Oh,  ho,"  said  Henry  of  Navarre,  "a  lady — more  dan- 


94  The  White  Plume 

gerous  still.  Hold  the  candle  there,  Jean-aux-Choux.  I 
must  look  less  like  a  hodman  and  more  like  a  king." 

And  he  drew  from  his  inner  pocket  a  little  glass  that 
fitted  a  frame,  and  pocket-comb,  with  which  he  arranged 
his  locks  and  the  curls  of  his  beard  with  a  care  at  which 
the  stout  Calvinist,  Anthony  Arpajon,  chafed  and 
fumed. 

"It  is  for  the  sake  of  his  mother,"  whispered  Jean  in 
his  ear,  to  comfort  him,  after  the  King  had  finished  at 
last  and  signified  that  he  was  ready  to  descend.  "She 
taught  him  that  cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness,"  said 
Jean,  "and  now,  when  he  is  a  man,  the  habit  clings  to 
him  still." 

"If  he  were  somewhat  less  of  a  man,"  said  the  Cal- 
vinist, in  the  same  whisper,  "he  would  be  the  better 
king." 

"Ah,  wait,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux — "wait  till  you  have 
seen  him  on  a  battle-front,  and  you  will  be  sure  that, 
for  all  his  faults,  there  never  was  a  more  manly  man  or 
a  kinglier  king !" 


CHAPTER   XIII 
A  MIDNIGHT  COUNCIL 

THE  Bearnais  met  D'Epernon  in  the  inner  dining-room 
of  Master  Anthony's  house.  His  servants  had  hastily 
lighted  a  few  wax  candles.  In  the  waggon-littered  court- 
yard without,  a  torch  or  two  flamed  murkily.  With  a 
quick  burst  of  anger,  Henry  leaned  from  a  window  and 
bade  them  be  extinguished.  So,  with  a  jetting  of  sparks 
on  the  hard-beaten  earth  of  the  courtyard,  the  dark- 
ness suddenly  re-established  itself. 

There  was,  on  the  side  of  the  Duke,  some  attempt  at 
a  battle  of  eyes.  But,  after  all,  he  had  only  been  the 
little  scion  of  a  Languedocean  squire  when  the  Bearnais 
was  already — the  Bearnais. 

The  Duke  bowed  himself  as  if  to  set  knee  to  the  ground, 
but  Henry  caught  him  up. 

"Caumont,"  he  said,  using  the  old  boyish  name  by  which 
they  had  known  each  other  in  their  wild  Paris  youth, 
"you  have  never  liked  me.  You  have  never  been  truly 
my  friend.  Why  do  you  come  to  seek  me  now  ?" 

The  busy  scheming  brain  behind  the  Valois  favourite's 
brow  was  working.  He  had  a  bluff  subject  to  deal  with, 
therefore  he  would  be  bluff. 

"Your  Majesty,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  one  in  all  France 
who  wishes  better  to  your  cause,  or  more  ill  to  the  League, 
than  I.  When  you  are  King,  you  shall  have  no  more 
faithful  or  obedient  subject.  But  friendship,  like  love,  is 
born  of  friendship ;  it  comes  not  by  command.  When  the 
King  of  Navarre  makes  me  his  friend,  I  shall  be  his !" 


96  The  White  Plume 

"Spoken  like  a  man,  and  no  courtier,"  cried  the  Bear- 
nais,  slapping  his  strong  hand  into  the  white  palm  of 
D'Epernon  with  a  report  like  a  pistol;  "I  swear  I  shall 
be  your  friend  till  the  day  I  die." 

And  the  Bearnais  kept  his  word,  and  gave  his  friend- 
ship all  his  life  to  the  dark,  scheming,  handsome  man, 
who  had  served  many  masters  in  his  time,  but  had  never 
loved  any  man  save  himself,  any  woman  except  his  wife, 
and  any  interest  outside  of  his  own  pocket. 

The  soldiers  of  the  Guard  Royal  made  a  rhyme  which 
went  not  ill  in  the  patois  of  the  camp,  but  which  goes 
lamely  enough  translated  into  English.  Somewhat  thus 
it  ran : 

"  Duke  Epernon  and  his  wife, 
Jean  Caumont  and  his  wife, 
Cadet  Valette  and  his  Cadette, 
Louis  Nogaret  and  his  wife — 
If  ever  I  wagered  I  would  bet 
My  pipe,  my  lass,  and  eke  my  life, 
That  this  brave  world  was  made  and  set 
For  Duke  Epernon  and  his  wife — 
Jean  Caumont  and  his  wife, 
Louis  Nogaret  and  his  wife, 
Cadet  Valette  and  his  Cadette!" 

And  so  Da  Capo — to  any  tune  which  happened  to  oc- 
cur to  them  in  their  semi-regal  license  of  King's  free 
guardsmen. 

Which  was  only  the  barrack  and  guard-room  way  of 
saying  that  Jean  Louis  de  Nogaret,  Cadet  de  la  Valette, 
Due  d'Epernon  and  royal  favourite,  looked  after  the  in- 
terests of  a  certain  important  numeral  with  some  care. 

"Caumont,"  said  the  King  of  Navarre,  "how  came 
you  to  know  I  was  in  this  town?  I  arrived  but  an  hour 
ago,  and  in  disguise." 

"Our  spies  are  better  than  Your  Majesty's,"   smiled 


The  White  Plume  97 

the  Duke.  "Your  true  Calvinist  is  something  too  stiff 
in  the  backbone  to  make  a  capable  informer.  You  ought 
to  employ  a  few  supple  Politiques,  accustomed  to  palace 
backstairs.  But,  on  this  occasion,  I  acknowledge  I  was 
favoured  by  circumstances.  For  I  have  with  me  the 
daughter  of  Francis  the  Scot,  called  Francis  d'Agneau, 
born,  I  believe,  of  a  Norman  house  long  established  in 
Scotland  near  to  the  Gulf  of  Solway.  Among  the  saddle- 
bags of  the  damsel's  pony,  hastily  concealed  by  other 
hands  than  her  own  (I  suspect  a  certain  red-haired  fool), 
there  was  found  a  series  of  letters  written  by  Your 
Majesty,  which,  in  case  they  might  fall  into  worse  hands, 
I  have  the  honour  of  returning  to  you.  Also  we  found 
an  appointment  for  this  very  night,  to  meet  with  Francis 
the  Scot  at  the  town  of  Blois  in  the  house  of  Anthony 
Arpajon!  Your  Majesty  has,  as  the  Leaguers  know,  a 
habit  of  uncomfortable  punctuality  in  the  keeping  of 
your  trysts.  So  I  have  availed  me  of  that  to  confide  the 
letters  and  the  maid  to  you,  together  with  a  good  Doctor 
of  the  Sorbonne,  one  who  has  done  you  no  mean  service 
to  the  honest  cause  in  that  wasps'  nest — so  good,  indeed, 
that  if  he  went  back,  the  Leaguers  of  his  own  hive  would 
sting  him  to  death.  Therefore  I  commit  them  all  to 
you!  Only  the  young  man  I  would  gladly  keep  by  me. 
But  that  shall  be  as  Your  Majesty  judges." 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  King.  "I  must  have  my  cousin, 
if  only  to  look  after.  If  the  Leaguers  get  hold  of  him, 
he  might  gain  a  throne,  indeed,  but  assuredly  he  would 
lose  his  head.  He  is  a  fine  lad,  and  will  do  very  well  in 
the  fighting  line  when  Rosny  has  licked  him  a  little  into 
shape!  But  I  am  truly  grateful  to  you,  D'Epernon. 
And  in  the  good  times  to  come,  I  shall  have  better  ways 
of  proving  my  gratitude  than  here,  in  the  house  of 
Anthony  Arpajon  and  in  the  guise  of  a  carter." 


98  The  White  Plume 

This  was  all  that  D'Epernon  had  been  waiting  for, 
and  he  promptly  bowed  himself  out.  The  instant  the 
Duke  was  through  the  door,  the  Bearnais  turned  to  the 
little  circle  of  his  immediate  followers. 

"Who  of  you  knows  the  town  and  Chateau  of  Blois? 
It  might  be  worth  while  following  the  fellow,  just  to  see  if 
any  treachery  be  in  the  wind.  It  may  be  I  do  him  wrong. 
If  so,  I  shall  do  him  the  greater  right  hereafter.  No, 
not  you,  D'Aubigne.  I  could  not  risk  you.  You  are 
my  father-confessor,  and  task  me  soundly  with  my 
faults.  Indeed,  I  might  as  well  be  a  Leaguer — they 
say  the  Cardinal  sets  more  easy  penances.  Brother 
Guise  is  the  true  Churchman — he  and  the  King  of 
Spain!" 

The  King  looked  about  from  one  to  another  doubtfully, 
seeking  a  fit  envoy. 

"No,  nor  you,  Rosny ;  you  can  fight  all  day,  and  figure 
all  night.  But  for  spying  we  want  a  lad  of  another  build. 
Let  me  see — let  me  see !" 

As  the  King  was  speaking,  Jean-aux-Choux  put  on  his 
brown  Capuchin  robe,  and  covered  his  red  furze  brush 
with  the  hood. 

"I  tracked  my  Lord  of  Epernon  this  night  once  be- 
fore," he  said,  "and  by  the  grace  of  God  I  can  do  as 
much  again.  I  know  his  trail,  and  will  be  at  the  orchard 
gate  of  the  Chateau  before  he  has  time  to  blow  the  dust 
out  of  his  key !" 

"How  do  you  come  to  know  so  much?"  demanded  the 
Bearnais. 

"By  this  token,"  said  Jean  carelessly;  "that  I  saw  my 
lady  here  and  the  three  men  come  out  of  the  Chateau. 
I  followed  them  hither,  and  had  your  men  roused  and 
ready,  so  that  if  there  had  been  any  treachery,  his  Duke- 
ship,  at  least,  would  have  been  the  first  to  fall !" 


The  White  Plume  99 

The  King  looked  about  him  inquiringly. 

"Rosny  and  D'Aubigne,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  know 
of  this — does  the  man  speak  true  ?" 

"A  pupil  of  John  Calvin  speaks  no  lie,"  said  Jean 
bravely.  The  King  laughed,  whereupon  Jean  added,  "If 
I  do  act  a  lie,  it  is  to  save  Your  Majesty — the  hope  of 
the  Faith!" 

"That  is  rather  like  the  old  heresy  of  doing  evil  that 
good  may  come,"  said  Henry;  "but  off  with  you!  If 
I  can  accommodate  my  conscience  to  a  waggoner's  blouse, 
I  do  not  see  why  you  should  not  reconcile  yours  to  a 
monk's  hood!" 

Jean-aux-Choux  departed,  muttering  to  himself  that 
the  Bearnais  was  becoming  as  learned  as  a  pupil  of  Beza 
or  a  Sorbonne  Doctor,  but  consoling  himself  for  his 
dialectical  defeat  by  the  thought  that,  at  least,  in  the 
Capuchin's  robe  he  was  fairly  safe.  For  even  if  caught, 
after  all,  it  was  only  another  trick  of  the  Fool  of  the 
Three  Henries. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  only  thing  concerning  which 
Leaguers,  Royalists,  and  Huguenots  were  agreed — that 
Jean-aux-Choux  was  a  good,  simple  fool ! 


CHAPTER   XIV 
EYES   OF   JADE 

CLAIRE  AGNEW  was  left  alone  among  a  world  of  men. 
But  as  she  had  known  few  women  all  her  life,  that  made 
the  less  matter.  Her  dark,  densely  ringleted  hair,  some- 
thing between  raven-black  and  the  colour  of  bog-oak,  was 
crisped  about  a  fine  forehead,  which  in  his  hours  of  ease 
her  father  had  been  wont  to  call  "Ailsa  Craig." 

"Oh,  cover  up  Ailsa !"  he  would  say  often  to  tease  her ; 
"no  girl  can  have  brains  enough  for  such  a  brow  as 
that!"  And  so,  to  please  him,  she  had  trained  her  hair 
to  lie  low  on  her  forehead,  and  then  to  ripple  and  twist 
away  gracefully  to  the  nape  of  her  neck,  looking,  as  she 
turned  her  head,  like  a  charming  young  Medusa  with 
deep  green  eyes  of  mystic  jade. 

Such  was  Claire  Agnew  in  the  year  of  grace  1588, 
when  she  found  herself  fatherless  in  that  famous  town  of 
Blois,  soon  to  be  the  terror,  the  joy,  the  hope  of  the  world. 
Not  that  any  description  can  do  much  to  make  the  per- 
sonality of  a  fair  woman  leap  from  the  printed  page. 
Slowly,  and  only  in  part,  it  must  disengage  itself  in  word 
and  thought  and  deed. 

Like  almost  all  lonely  girls,  Claire  Agnew  kept,  in  her 
father's  tongue,  often  in  his  very  dialect,  a  journal  of 
events  and  feelings  and  imaginings — her  "I-book,"  as 
she  used  to  name  it  to  herself. 

That  night  as  she  curled  herself  up  to  sleep — it  was 
almost  morning — she  arranged  in  her  mind  how  she  would 
begin  the  very  next  day  to  write  down  "all  that  happened, 


The  White  Plume  101 

as  well  as"  (because  she  was  a  girl)  "all  that  she  hoped 
would  happen." 

The  closely-packed  script  has  come  down  to  us,  the 
writing  fine,  like  Greek  cursive.  The  paper  has  been 
preserved  marvellously,  but  the  ink  is  browned  with  time, 
and  the  letters  so  small  and  serried  that  they  can  only 
be  made  out  with  a  magnifying  glass. 

"This  is  my  I-Book,  and  I  mean  to  be  more  faithful  with  myself 
in  writing  it  out;  from  this  time  forward — I  shall  write  it  every  night, 
no  matter  how  tired  I  may  be.  Or — at  least,  the  next  day,  without 
the  least  failure  whatever.  This  shall  have  the  force  of  a  vow  !" 

(Poor  Claire — even  thus  have  all  diaries  opened,  since 
the  first  Cave-man  began  to  scratch  the  details  of  his 
Twelfth  of  August  "bag"  on  a  mammoth-tusk!  What 
a  feeble  proportion  of  these  diaries  have  survived  even 
one  fortnight!) 

"  Yes,  I  like  him,"  Claire  wrote,  without  prelude  or  the  formality 
of  naming  the  him — "  I  like  him,  but  I  am  glad  he  is  gone.  Somehow, 
till  I  have  thought  and  rested  a  while,  I  shall  feel  safer  with  just  our 
excellent  Doctor  Long,  who  preaches  at  me  much  as  Pastor  Gras 
used  to  do  at  Geneva.  Indeed,  I  see  little  difference,  except  that 
the  pastor  was  older,  and  did  not  hold  my  hand  as  he  talked.  But 
no  doubt  he  does  that  because  I  have  lost  my  father." 

Doubtless  it  was  so;  nevertheless  it  needs  some  little 
explanation  to  make  it  clear  why,  after  having  been 
committed  by  D'Epernon  to  the  care  of  the  King  of 
Navarre,  Claire  and  the  Professor  should  still  be  in  the 
little  town  of  Blois,  with  the  young  girl  busily  writing 
her  journal,  and  lifting  her  eyes  at  the  end  of  every 
sentence  to  look  across  the  broad  blue  river  at  the  squares 
and  oblongs  of  ripening  vintages  which  went  clambering 
irregularly  over  the  low  hills  opposite. 

"  The  Loire  here  in  this  place"  (so  she  wrote)  "  is  broad  and  calm, 
not  swift  and  treacherous  like  the  Rhone,  or  sleepy  like  the  Seine, 


102  The  White  Plume 

nor  yet  fierce  like  the  Rhine  as  I  saw  it  long  ago,  lashing  green  as 
sea-water  about  the  old  bridge  at  Basel.  I  love  the  Loire — a  wide 
river,  still  and  unrippled,  not  a  leaping  fish,  not  a  stooping  bird,  a 
water  of  silver  flowing  on  and  on  in  a  dream.  And  though  my  father 
is  dead  and  I  greatly  alone  (save  for  old  Madame  Granier  in  her 
widow's  crape)  I  cannot  feel  that  I  am  very  unhappy.  Perhaps  it  is 
wicked  to  say  so.  I  reproach  myself  that  I  lack  feeling — that  if  I 
had  loved  my  father  more,  surely  I  would  now  have  been  more  un- 
happy. I  do  not  know.  One  is  as  one  is  made. 

"  Yet  I  did  love  him — God  knows  I  did  !  But  here — it  is  so  peace- 
ful. Sadness  falls  away." 

And  peaceful  it  certainly  was.  The  Bearnais  had  gone 
back  to  his  camp,  taking  the  Abbe  John  with  him,  where, 
in  the  incessant  advance  and  retreat  of  the  Huguenot 
army,  there  was  little  room  for  fair  maids. 

Before  he  went  away,  the  King  had  had  a  talk  with  Jean- 
aux-Choux  and  with  his  host,  Anthony  Arpajon.  They 
reminded  him  that  for  some  months  at  least  no  one  would 
be  more  welcome  in  Blois  than  this  learned  Professor  of 
the  Sorbonne.  Was  not  the  Parliament  of  the  King — 
the  loyal  States-General — to  be  gathered  there  in  a  few 
weeks?  And,  meantime,  the  provident  Blesois  were  em- 
ployed in  making  their  rooms  fit  and  proper  for  the  re- 
ception of  the  rich  and  noble  out  of  all  France,  excepting 
only  the  Leaguer  provinces  of  the  north  and  the  Hugue- 
not south-east  from  the  Loire  to  the  Pyrenees. 

"I  would  willingly  keep  the  maid  and  the  Professor," 
said  Anthony,  "but  it  is  of  the  nature  of  my  business 
that  there  should  be  at  times  a  bustle  and  a  noise  of  rough 
lads  coming  and  going.  And  though  none  of  them  would 
harm  the  daughter  of  Francis  the  Scot — having  me  to 
deal  with,  as  well  as  wearing,  for  the  most  part,  the  silver 
cow-bell  at  their  girdles — yet  a  hostelry  is  no  place  for  a 
well-favoured  Calvinist  maid,  and  the  daughter  of  Mas- 
ter Francis  Agnew !" 


The  White  Plume  103 

"What,  then,  would  you  do  with  her?" 

The  brow  of  the  King  was  frowning  a  little.  After  all, 
he  thought,  had  the  girl  not  followed  her  father,  and 
been  accustomed  to  the  rough  side  of  the  blanket?  He 
had  not  found  women  so  nice  about  their  accommodation 
when  a  king  catered  for  them. 

But  a  well-timed  jest  of  Jean-aux-Choux  concerning 
the  young  blades  which  the  mere  sight  of  Claire  would  set 
bickering,  caused  the  Bearnais  to  smile,  and  with  a  sigh 
he  gave  way. 

"Well,  Anthony  the  Calvinist,  you  are  an  obstinate 
varlet.  Have  it  as  you  will.  I  am  an  easy  man.  But 
tell  me  your  plans.  For,  after  all,  the  girl  has  been  com- 
mitted to  my  charge." 

The  Calvinist  innkeeper  had  his  answer  ready. 

"There  dwells,"  he  said,  "by  the  water-side  yonder  a 
wise  and  prudent  wife,  whose  husband  was  long  at  the 
wars,  a  sergeant  in  your  Cevenol  levies.  She  will  care 
for  the  maid.  And  if  there  be  need,  Madame  Granier 
knows  a  door  in  her  back-yard  by  which,  at  all  times, 
she  can  have  such  help  or  shelter  as  the  house  of  Anthony 
Arpajon  can  give  her." 

"And  the  Professor  of  Eloquence?"  said  Henry,  with 
a  quick  glance. 

"Is  he  not  her  uncle — in  a  way,  her  guardian?"  said 
Anthony,  with  an  impenetrable  countenance.  "She  could 
not  be  in  safer  hands.  Leave  us  also  the  fool,  Jean-aux- 
Choux,  and,  by  my  word,  you  shall  have  the  first  and 
the  best  intelligence  of  that  the  King  and  his  wise  Parlia- 
menters  may  devise.  They  say  my  Lord  of  Guise  is  soon 
to  be  here  with  a  thousand  gentlemen,  and  such  a  tail  of 
the  commonalty  as  will  eat  up  all  the  decent  folk  in  Blois 
like  a  swarm  of  locusts !" 

"Good,"  said  the  King  of  Navarre.     "Guise  has  long 


104  The  White  Plume 

been  tickling  the  adder's  tail ;  he  will  find  what  the  head 
holds  some  fine  day,  when  he  least  expects  it !" 

These  were  quiet  days  in  the  little  white  house,  with  only 
the  narrow  quay  underneath,  and  the  changing  groups 
of  washerwomen,  bare-armed,  lilac-bloused,  laving  and 
lifting  in  the  tremulous  heat-haze  of  the  afternoon.  But 
somehow  they  were  very  dear  days  to  Claire  Agnew,  and 
she  clung  to  the  memory  of  them  long  afterwards. 

She  was  near  enough  for  safety  to  the  hostelry  of  the 
Silver  Cow-bell  (presently  held  by  Anthony  Arpajon), 
yet  far  enough  from  it  to  be  quite  apart  from  its  throng 
and  bustle.  All  day  Madame  Granier  gathered  up  the 
gossip  of  the  quarter,  and  passing  it  through  a  kind  of 
moral  sieve,  retailed  it  at  intervals  to  her  guest. 

Furthermore,  Claire  had  time  to  bethink  herself.  She 
had  long,  long  thoughts  of  the  Abbe  John.  She  remem- 
bered how  bright  and  willing  he  had  ever  been  in  her 
service,  how  he  had  respected  her  grief,  and  never 
breathed  word  her  father  might  not  have  heard. 

And  her  good  Professor  of  Eloquence — Doctor  Anatole 
Long?  What  of  him?  He  was  there  close  under  her 
hand,  always  willing  to  stroll  with  her  along  the  river's 
bank.  Or  in  Dame  Granier's  little  living-room,  he  would 
explain  the  universe  to  Claire  Agnew  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  Madame  Granier's  clattering  platters  and  her 
rhyme  of  King  Francis. 

"  Brave  Francis  went  the  devil's  way, 
Bold  sprang  the  hawk,  laughed  maidens  gay  ! 
Yet  he  learned  to  eat  from  an  Emperor's  tray, 
Sans  hawk,  sans  hound,  sans  maiden  gay. 
A-lack-a-day  !     A-lack-a-day  ! 
From  Pavia's  steeple  struck  Doomsday  !" 

After  all,  it  was  best  by  the  river-side.  You  saw  things 
there,  and  if  the  Professor  were  in  good  humour,  he 


Ike   White  Plume  105 

would  talk  on  and  on,  while  you  could — that  is,  Claire 
could — throw  stones  in  the  water  without  disturbing  the 
even  flow  of  the  big,  fine  words.  Not  too  large  stones, 
but  only  pebbles,  else  he  would  rise  and  march  on,  with 
a  frown  at  being  interrupted,  but  without  at  all  perceiv- 
ing the  cause.  For  at  such  times  Claire  always  looked 
especially  demure. 

"You  are  indeed  my  dear  Uncle  Anatole,"  she  said  one 
day,  when  they  had  been  longer  by  the  water-side  than 
usual;  "you  were  just  made  for  it.  If  you  had  not  been 
— I  declare  I  should  have  adopted  you !" 

There  was  something  teasing  about  Claire's  accent,  at 
once  girlish  and  light,  which  fell  pleasantly  on  the  Pro- 
fessor's ear.  But  the  words — he  was  not  so  sure  that  he 
liked  the  words. 

"I  am  not  so  old,"  he  said,  the  deep  furrow  which 
dinted  downwards  between  his  thick  eyebrows  smoothing 
itself  out  as  he  looked,  or  rather  peered,  at  her  with  his 
short-sighted  blue  eyes;  "my  mother  is  active  still.  I 
long  for  you  to  see  her ;  and  I  have  two  brothers,  one  of 
whom  was  thinking  of  marrying  last  year,  but  after  all 
it  came  to  nothing !" 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  said  Claire  suddenly. 

"And  pray  why?"  The  Professor  swung  about  and 
faced  her.  "What  was  there  to  prevent  it?" 

"The  girl,  of  course !"  said  Claire,  smiling  simply. 

"Umph !"  said  the  Professor,  and  for  half  a  mile  spoke 
no  more. 

Then  he  nodded  his  head  sagely,  and  communed  to  him- 
self without  speech. 

"She  is  right,"  he  said ;  "she  is  warning  me.  What  have 
I  to  do  with  young  maids  ? — I  who  might  have  had  maids 
of  my  own,  fool  that  I  was!  Hey,  what's  that?  Stand 
back  there,  or  I  will  spit  any  two  of  you — dogs  I" 


106  The  White  Plume 

A  laughing,  dancing  convoy  of  gold-laced  pages  from 
the  Chateau,  now  rapidly  filling  up  for  the  momentous 
meeting  of  the  States-General,  swirled  out  of  the  willow- 
copses  by  the  Loire  side.  Claire  was  caught  into  the 
turmoil  of  the  dance,  as  a  flight  of  wild  pigeons  might 
envelop  a  tame  dove  wandering  from  the  Basse  Cour. 

"Go  up,  bald-head !"  they  cried,  "grey  beards  and  young 
maids  go  not  well  together !" 

The  Professor  of  Eloquence,  stung  by  the  affront,  lifted 
his  only  weapon,  a  stout  oaken  cudgel.  And  with  such 
a  pack  of  beardless  loons,  the  mere  threat  was  enough. 
They  scattered,  screaming  and  laughing. 

"I  will  report  you  to  the  Provost-Marshal,  to  the  Major- 
domo  of  the  palace,  and  your  backs  shall  pay  for  this 
insolence  to  my  niece !" 

"I  think  they  meant  no  harm,  sir,"  said  Clair  breath- 
lessly, taking  the  arm  of  the  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne. 
She  was  astonished  at  his  heat. 

"The  whipping-bench  and  a  good  dozen  spare  rods  are 
what  they  want !"  growled  the  Professor.  "These  are  ill 
times.  'Train  up  a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go,' 
saith  the  Book.  But  in  these  days  the  young  see  only 
evil  all  their  days,  and  when  they  are  old  they  depart  not 
from  that!" 


CHAPTER    XV 
MISTRESS   CATHERINE 

UPON  the  return  of  the  Professor  and  Claire  from  the 
river-side  to  the  little  walled  garden  and  white  house  of 
Dame  Granier,  they  found  Anthony  Arpajon  waiting  for 
them.  With  him  was  a  lady — no,  a  girl  of  thirty ;  the 
expression  is  right.  For  through  the  girlish  brightness 
of  her  complexion,  and  in  spite  of  the  quick  smile  that 
went  and  came  upon  her  lips,  there  pierced  the  sure  de- 
termination and  settled  convictions  of  the  adult  of  a 
strong  race. 

"I  am  Catherine  d'Albret  and  a  cousin  of  your  friend," 
said  the  girl;  "I  have  a  number  of  followers — brave 
gentlemen  all  of  them,  who  have  ridden  with  me  from 
the  south.  They  are  lodging  with  our  friend  Anthony 
here.  But  I  am  come  to  abide  with  you — if  I  may.  We 
shall  share  the  same  room  and,  if  you  like  me,  we  shall 
talk  the  moon  across  the  sky !" 

She  held  out  both  her  hands,  but  Claire's  shy  Scottish 
blood  still  held  off.  The  Professor  came  to  their  assist- 
ance. 

"As  my  lady  is  a  D'Albret,"  she  said,  "she  must  be  a 
cousin-germain  to  our  good  Abbe  jTohn !" 

The  girl  smiled,  and  gave  her  head  a  little  uplift,  half 
of  amusement,  half  of  contempt. 

"Ay,  truly,"  she  said,  "but  we  are  of  different  religions. 
I  love  not  to  see  a  man  waste  his  life  on  the  benches  of  the 
Sorbonne !  and  all  for  what — only  to  wear  a  red  hat  when 
all  is  done,  like  my  Uncle  of  Bourbon !" 


108  The  White  Plume 

The  Professor  sighed  and  thoughtfully  rubbed  his 
brow.  Then  he  smiled  as  he  answered  the  girl. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "it  is  always  so  with  you  young  peo- 
ple. Here  am  I  who  have  spent  the  best  part  of  my 
life  on  these  very  Sorbonne  benches,  teaching  Eloquence 
to  a  party  of  young  jackanapes  who  had  far  better  hold 
their  tongues  till  they  have  something  to  say.  And  for 
me  no  cardinal's  hat  at  the  end  of  all !" 

He  sighed  a  second  time,  as  he  added,  "Indeed,  I  know 
not  very  well  what,  after  all,  is  at  the  end — certainly  not 
their  monkish  dreams  of  hell,  purgatory,  paradise !" 

The  newcomer  stepped  eagerly  forward  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  lips.  "Hush,"  she  said,  "you  have  lost  your 
way.  You  have  wandered  in  your  own  mazes  of  sub- 
tilty,  and  arrived  nowhere.  Now  we  of  the  Faith  will  lead 
you  in  green  pastures,  beside  still  but  living  waters, 
which  your  soul  shall  love !" 

The  Professor  watched  the  maiden  before  him  a  little 
sadly.  Her  face  was  all  aglow  with  enthusiasm.  There 
was  a  brilliant  light  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,   I   shall   teach   you — I,    Catherine   of   Navarre 


There  was  a  noise  outside  on  the  quay. 

She  turned  towards  the  window  to  look  out.  At  the 
first  step,  a  little  halt  in  her  gait  betrayed  her. 

The  Professor  of  Eloquence  sank  on  one  knee. 

"You  are  Jeanne  d'Albret's  own  daughter,"  he  said, 
"her  very  self,  as  I  saw  her  a  month  before  the  Bar- 
tholomew. Even  so  she  spoke — even  so  she  walked.  The 
Bearnais  hath  no  philosophy  other  than  his  sword  and 
the  ready  quip  on  his  tongue.  He  cares  no  more  for  one 
religion  or  the  other  than  the  white  plume  he  carries 
in  the  front  of  battle.  But  not  so  you." 

"Henry    of    Bourbon-Vendqme    is    my    brother,"    said 


The  White  Plume  109 

Catherine,  "all  king,  all  brave  man.  His  faults  are  not 
mine — nor  mine  his.  I  am,  as  I  said,  a  manifest  D'Albret. 
But  Henry  holds  of  Bourbon !" 

The  two  young  maids  mounted  to  their  chamber. 
Madame  Granier  was  already  there,  ordering  the  bed- 
linen  for  the  new  guest.  The  girls  stood  looking  a  long 
while  into  each  other's  faces. 

"You  are  prettier  than  I,"  said  Mistress  Catherine; 
"but  they  tell  me  that,  for  all  that  (and  it  is  saying 
much),  your  father  made  you  a  good  daughter  of  the 
Religion !" 

"He  was  indeed  all  of  good  and  brave  and  in  instruc- 
tion wise — I  fear  me  I  have  profited  but  little !" 

"Ah,"  said  the  Princess,  "that  is  as  I  would  expect  your 
father's  daughter  to  speak.  For  the  present,  I  cannot 
offer  you  much.  I  have  a  great  and  serious  work  to  do. 
But  one  day  you  shall  be  my  maid-of-honour !" 

It  is  the  way  of  princesses,  even  of  the  wisest.  But  the 
daughter  of  Francis  the  Scot  was  free-born.  She  only 
smiled  a  little,  and  answered  with  her  father's  quiet  dig- 
nity of  manner,  "Then  or  now,  I  will  do  anything  for 
the  daughter  of  Queen  Jeanne !" 

"By-and-by,  perhaps,  you  will  be  willing  to  do  a  little 
for  myself,"  said  the  Princess  gently,  putting  out  her 
arms  and  taking  Claire's  head  upon  her  shoulder.  "We 
shall  love  one  another  well,  little  one." 

The  "little  one"  was  at  least  four  inches  taller  than  the 
speaker,  but  something  must  be  forgiven  to  a  princess. 

Meantime,  Madame  Granier  had  arranged  all  Mistress 
Catherine's  simple  linen  and  travelling  necessities — the 
linen  strong,  white,  and  country-spun,  smelling  of  far-off 
Navarre,  bleached  on  the  meadows  by  the  brooks  that 
prattle  down  from  the  snows.  The  brushes  and  combs 
were  of  plain  material — no  gold  or  silver  about  them 


110  The  White  Plume 

anywhere.  Only  in  a  little  shagreen  case  rested  a  silver 
spoon,  a  knife,  and  a  two-pronged  fork,  with  a  gilt 
crown  upon  each.  Otherwise  the  camp-equipment  of 
a  simple  soldier  of  the  Bearnais  could  not  have  been  com- 
moner. 

When  the  hostess  had  betaken  her  downstairs,  Mistress 
Catherine  drew  her  new  friend  down  on  a  low  settle,  and 
holding  her  hand,  began  to  open  out  her  heart  gladly, 
as  if  she  had  long  wished  for  a  confidante. 

"I  have  come  to  seek  my  brother,"  she  said ;  "I  expected 
him  here  in  this  house.  There  is  a  plot  to  take  his  life. 
Guise  and  D'Epernon  both  hate  him.  And,  indeed,  both 
have  cause.  He  is  too  brave  for  one — too  subtle  for  the 
other.  You  heard  how,  at  the  beginning  of  this  war, 
he  sent  messengers  to  the  Duke  of  Guise  saying,  'I  am 
first  prince  of  the  blood — you  also  claim  the  throne.  Now, 
to  prevent  the  spilling  of  much  brave  blood,  let  us  two 
fight  it  out  to  the  death !'  But  Guise  merely  answered 
that  he  had  no  quarrel  with  his  cousin  of  Navarre,  having 
only  taken  up  arms  to  defend  from  heresy  the  Catholic 
faith — what  a  coward !" 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Claire,  "that  no  man  can  be 
a  coward  who  ventures  himself  with  an  angry  treacherous 
king  as  freely  as  in  his  own  house." 

"Ah" — the  Princess  smiled  scornfully — "our  cousin 
Guise  dpes  not  lack  courage  of  the  insolent  sort.  Wit- 
ness how  on  the  Day  of  the  Barricades  he  extended 
his  kind  protection  to  King  Henry  III.  of  Valois  in 
his  own  city  of  Paris,  where  he  had  dwelt  fourteen 
years.  Nay,  he  even  rode  in  from  Soissons  that  he  might 
doit!" 

"You  do  not  love  my  Lord  of  Guise?"  said  Claire. 
"Yet  my  father  used  to  call  him  the  best  Huguenot  in 
France,  and  swear  that  neither  Rosny,  nor  D'Aubigne, 


The  White  Plume  111 

nor  yet  he  himself  did  one  half  so  much  service  to  the 
Bearnais  as  the  Duke  of  Guise !" 

The  King's  sister  pondered  a  while  upon  this. 

"That  is  perhaps  true,"  she  said  at  last;  "Guise  is 
vain,  and  venturesome  because  he  is  vain.  He  cannot  do 
without  shouting  crowds,  and  hands  held  out  to  him  by 
every  scavenger  and  pewterer's  apprentice — 'Guise — the 
good  Guise!'  Pah!  The  man  is  no  better  than  a 
posturer  before  a  booth  at  a  fair !" 

"I  have  heard  almost  as  much  from  my  father,"  Claire 
answered ;  "he  used  to  say  that  Mayenne  led  the  armies, 
the  priests  collected  the  pennies,  and  as  for  Guise,  he  was 
only  the  big  man  who  beat  the  Leaguers'  drum !" 

"Your  father  is  dead,  they  say,"  murmured  the  Princess 
softly ;  "but  in  his  time  he  must  have  been  a  man  of 
wit." 

"He  taught  me  all  I  know,"  Claire  assented,  "and  he 
died  in  the  service  of  the  Faith  and  of  the  King  of 
Navarre." 

"It  is  strange  that  I  should  never  have  met  him,"  said 
Catherine.  "I  have  heard  say  he  was  on  mission  to  my 
brother." 

"On  secret  mission,"  said  Claire ;  "we  came  often  to  the 
camp  by  night,  and  were  gone  in  the  morning." 

The  Princess  looked  at  her  junior  in  great  astonish- 
ment. 

"Then  you  have  seen  camps,  and  men,  and  cities?"  she 
asked  eagerly. 

"And  you,  courts!"  answered  Claire,  on  her  part  not 
a  little  wistfully. 

A  shudder  traversed  the  slender  body  of  the  Princess. 
Her  lip  curled  with  disgust. 

"You  speak  like  a  child,"  she  answered  hotly.  "Why, 
I  tell  you,  on  the  head  of  my  mother,  you  are  safer  and 


112  The  White  Plume 

better  in  a  camp  of  German  relters  than  in  any  court 
in  Europe.  But  I  forgot — you,  at  least,  can  pick  and 
choose.  You  were  not  born  to  be  only  a  pawn  in  the 
chess-play.  If  you  do  not  wish  to  marry  a  man,  you 
have  only  to  say  him  nay.  You  are  not  a  princess.  I 
would  to  God  I  were  not !" 

"What  is  the  plot  against  your  brother?"  said  Claire, 
willing  to  turn  her  companion  from  black  ideas ;  "per- 
haps I  can  help.  At  least,  I  have  with  me  one  who, 
though  they  name  him  'fool,'  is  yet  wiser  than  all  the 
men  I  have  met,  excepting  only  my  father." 

"And  they  name  this  marvel — what?"  demanded  the 
Princess. 

"  Jean-aux-Choux — the  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries." 

Mistress  Catherine  clapped  her  hands  almost  girlishly, 
forgetting  her  accustomed  dignity. 

"I  have  seen  him,"  she  cried ;  "once  he  came  to  Nerac, 
where  he  pleased  the  Reine  Margot  greatly.  She  is  a 
judge  of  fools !" 

"Our  Jean  is  no  fool,  really,"  said  Claire,  "but  born 
of  my  nation,  and  a  learned  man,  very  zealous  for  the 
Faith." 

"I  know — I  know,"  said  the  Princess;  "I  have  heard 
D'Aubigne  say  of  him  that  folly  made  the  best  cloak 
for  unsafe  wisdom.  As  to  the  design  against  the  King, 
it  is  this.  Before  the  Duke  of  Guise  comes  to  the  Par- 
liament, the  Valois  will  first  invite  my  brother  to  a  con- 
ference— not  here  in  Blois,  but  nearer  his  own  lines — at 
Portiers,  perhaps,  or  at  Loches.  The  Queen-Mother,  the 
Medici  woman,  though  sick  and  old,  has  gathered  many 
of  her  maids-of -honour.  She  will  strive  to  work  upon 
my  easy  brother  with  fair  words  and  fair  faces,  in  the 
hope  that,  like  Judas,  he  will  betray  his  Master  with  a 
kiss!" 


The  White  Plume  113 

"I  had  not  thought  there  could  be  in  all  the  world  such 
— women !"  said  Claire.  "After  all,  our  Scottish  way  is 
fairer — and  that  is  foot  to  foot  and  blade  to  blade !" 

"Even  the  Valois  dagger  in  the  back  is  tetter,"  said  the 
Princess ;  "but  this  Italian  woman  is  cunning,  like  all  her 
fox-brood  of  Florentine  money-lenders!  How  shall 
we  foil  her?  It  is  useless  speaking  to  my  brother.  He 
would  only  laugh,  and  bid  me  get  to  my  sampler  till 
he  had  found  a  goodman  of  my  own  for  me  to  knit  hose 
for !" 

"Let  me  ask  counsel  of  the  Doctor  of  the  Sorbonne 
who  is  with  me,"  Claire  urged;  "he  is  very  wise,  and 


"A  Doctor  of  the  Sorbonne!"  cried  Mistress  Catherine 
— "impossible !  Why,  have  they  not  cursed  my  brother, 
excommunicated  him?  They  have  even  turned  against 
their  own  King !" 

"Ay,  but,"  said  Claire,  now  eager  to  do  her  friend  jus- 
tice, "my  Doctor  they  have  excommunicated  also,  because 
he  withstood  them  in  full  Senatus.  If  he  went  back  to 
Paris  just  now,  they  would  hang  him  in  his  gown  from 
the  windows  of  his  own  class-room !" 

So  in  this  way  Doctor  Anatole  of  the  Sorbonne  entered 
into  the  heretic  councils  of  the  Bearnais.  Indeed,  his 
was  the  idea  which  came  like  a  lightning-flash  of  illumi- 
nation upon  the  councils  of  Claire  and  the  Princess 
Catherine. 

"What  of  La  Reine  Margot  ?"  murmured  the  Professor, 
as  if  he  had  been  speaking  to  himself;  "is  she  of  her 
husband's  enemies?" 

"Nay — but,"  began  the  Princess,  "that  would  be  pour- 
ing oil  upon  fire !" 

"Where  one  fire  has  burned,  there  is  little  fuel  for  a 
second,"  suggested  the  Professor  sententiously. 


114  The  White  Plume 

"It  is  not  the  highest  wisdom,"  said  the  careful  Prin- 
cess ;  "I  fear  it  would  not  bring  a  blessing." 

"It  is  wisdom — if  not  the  highest,  my  Lady  Catherine," 
said  the  learned  Doctor,  "and  if  the  matter  succeeds — 
that,  for  your  Cause,  will  be  blessing  enough !" 

"Then  our  Cause  is  not  yours?"  Catherine  demanded 
sharply  of  him.  The  Professor  smiled. 

"I  am  old,  or  you  children  think  so.  I  have  at  least 
seen  the  vanity  of  persecuting  any  man  for  the  thought 
that  is  in  his  heart.  I  was  bred  a  Catholic,  yet  have  been 
persecuted  by  my  brethren  for  differing  from  them.  But 
I  agree  that  most  honest  folk  of  the  realm  are  of  your 
brother's  party — the  brave,  the  wise,  the  single  of  eye 
and  heart.  There  will  never  be  a  king  in  France  till  the 
Bearnais  reigns !" 

The  Professor  spoke  with  a  certain  antique  freedom, 
and  the  Princess,  moved  with  a  sudden  impulse,  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"You  are  with  us,  then,  if  not  of  us?"  she  said. 

"I  am  of  this  young  lady's  party,"  smiled  the  Profes- 
sor, turning  to  Claire,  who  had  been  listening  quietly. 
There  was  a  look  of  great  love  in  his  eyes. 

"Then  I  must  needs  make  sure  of  her?" said  the  Princess, 
putting  her  arm  about  Claire's  waist.  "Mistress  Claire, 
vow  that  you  will  recruit  for  our  army !" 

"Long  ago  one  made  me  vow  that  vow!"  said  Claire. 
"I  am  not  likely  to  betray  the  Cause  for  which  my  father 
died !" 

The  face  of  the  Princess  Catherine  grew  grave.  She 
was  thinking  of  her  own  father.  Anthony  of  Bourbon 
had  not  made  so  good  an  end. 

"I  vowed  my  vow  night  and  morning  at  my  mother's 
knee,"  she  said.  "Thus  it  was  she  bade  me  promise,  in 
these  very  words — 'As  I  hope  for  Christ's  dear  mercy, 


The  White  Plume  115 

I  will  live  and  I  will  die  in  the  Faith  given  to  the  fisher- 
men of  Galilee.  I  will  cleave  to  it,  despising  all  other. 
Every  believer,  rich  or  poor,  shall  be  my  brother  or  my 
sister — they  all  princes  and  princesses  in  Jesus  Christ, 
I  only  a  poor  sinner  hoping  in  His  mercy  !'  * 

The  Professor  bowed  his  head,  crossed  himself  instinct- 
ively, and  said,  "Amen  to  so  good  a  prayer !  At  the  end, 
it  is  ever  our  mother's  religion  which  is  ours !" 


CHAPTER  XVI 
LA  REINE  MARGOT 

THE  Bearnais  was  too  wise  to  venture  so  near  the  wolf's 
den  as  Loches  or  Tours.  The  conference,  therefore,  took 
place  in  the  little  town  of  Argenton,  perched  along  either 
side  of  the  Creuse,  a  huddle  of  wooden-fronted  houses 
cascading  down  to  a  clear  blue  river,  every  balcony  filled 
with  flowers  and  fluttering  that  day  with  banners. 

Catherine,  the  Queen-Mother,  was  to  travel  from 
Chartres  to  represent  her  son  King  Henry  III.  of  Valois, 
of  Poland,  and  of  France.  Henry  the  Bearnais  rode  over 
from  his  entrenched  camp  at  Beauregard  with  a  retinue 
of  Huguenot  gentlemen,  whose  plain  dark  armour  and 
weather-beaten  features  showed  more  acquaintance  with 
camp  than  with  court. 

The  Bearnais,  as  usual,  proved  himself  gay,  kindly, 
debonnaire.  The  Queen-Mother  (also  as  usual)  was 
ambassador  for  her  slothful  son,  conscious  that  her  last 
summer  was  waning,  mostly  doing  her  travelling  in  a 
litter.  Catherine  de  Medici  never  forgot  for  a  moment 
that  she  was  the  centre  round  which  forty  years  of 
intrigue  had  revolved.  The  wife  of  one  king  of  France, 
the  mother  of  three  others,  she  played  her  part  as  in  her 
youngest  days.  With  death  grappling  at  her  heart,  she 
surrounded  herself  with  the  flower  of  the  youth  and 
beauty  of  Italy  and  France,  laughing  with  the  gayest, 
and  ready  with  smile  and  gracious  word  for  king  or 
knave. 

The  deportment  of  the  Bearnais  was  in  strong  contrast 


The  White  Plume  117 

with  that  of  his  Huguenot  suite.  The  King  of  Navarre 
made  merry  with  all  the  world.  He  was  ever  the  centre  of 
a  bright  and  changeful  group  of  maids-of -honour  to  the 
Queen-Mother,  with  whom  he  jested  and  laughed  freely, 
till  Rosny  whispered  behind  his  hand  to  D'Aubigne,  "If 
this  goes  on,  we  shall  make  but  a  poor  treaty  of  it !" 

And  to  him  D'Aubigne  replied  grimly,  "I  will  wager 
that  my  Lord  Duke  d'Epernon  looks  well  to  that." 

"No,"  said  Rosny  shortly,  "the  old  vixen  is  the  sly 
renard." 

Soon  the  festival  ran  its  blithest.  The  Queen-Mother 
had  withdrawn  herself,  possibly  to  repose,  certainly  to 
plot.  With  D'Epernon  and  the  maids-of-honour  the 
Bearnais  remained,  our  Abbe  John  by  his  side,  laughing 
with  the  merriest.  Turenne  and  the  other  Huguenot 
veterans  brooded  sullenly  in  the  background,  seeing  mat- 
ters go  badly,  but  not  able  to  help  it.  Afterwards — well, 
they  had  a  way  of  their  own  of  speaking  their  minds. 
And  the  brave,  good-humoured  king  would  heed  them 
too,  in  nowise  growing  angry  with  their  freedoms.  But, 
alas !  by  that  time  the  steed  would  be  stolen,  the  treaty 
signed,  and  the  Medici  and  her  maids-of -dishonour  well 
on  the  way  to  Chartres. 

The  question  was,  whether  or  not  Henry  III.  would 
throw  himself  wholly  into  the  hands  of  the  League  at 
the  forthcoming  Parliament  of  Blois,  or  if,  by  a  secret 
compact  with  the  Bearnais,  the  gentlemen  of  the  Hugue- 
not Gascon  provinces  would  attend  to  support  the  royal 
authority. 

"I  shall  go,  if  our  Bearnais  commands  me,"  said  Tu- 
renne; "but  I  wager  they  will  dye  the  Loire  as  red  as 
ever  they  did  the  Seine  on  Bartholomew's  Day — aye, 
and  fringe  the  Chateau  with  us,  as  they  did  at  Amboise. 
These  Guises  do  not  forget  their  ancient  tricks." 


118  The  White  Plume 

"And  right  pretty  you  would  look,  my  good  Lord 
Turenne,  your  frosty  beard  wagging  in  the  wind  and  a 
raven  perched  on  your  bald  pate !" 

"If  I  were  in  your  shoes,  I  would  not  talk  so  freely 
either  of  beards  or  of  baldness,  D'Aubigne,"  growled 
Turenne.  "I  mind  well  when  a  certain  clever  lad  had 
no  more  than  the  beard  of  a  rabbit,  which  only  comes 
out  at  night  for  fear  of  the  dogs." 

"It  is  strange,"  said  D'Aubigne,  not  in  the  least  of- 
fended with  his  comrade,  "  that  he  who  has  no  fear  of 
the  swords,  should  grow  weak  at  the  fluttering  of  a 
kerchief  or  before  the  artful  carelessness  of  a  neck- 
ribbon." 

"Not  strange  at  all,"  said  Turenne;  "is  he  not  a  man 
and  a  Bearnais?  Beside,  being  a  Bourbon,  he  will  pay 
those  the  best  to  whom  he  owes  least.  And  we,  who 
have  loved  him  as  we  never  loved  father  or  mother,  wife 
or  child,  will  be  sent  back  to  the  chimney-corner  with 
our  thumbs  to  suck !" 

"Aye,  because  he  is  sure  of  us !"  retorted  D'Aubigne 
gloomily,  unconsciously  prefiguring  a  day  when  he 
should  sit,  an  exile  in  a  foreign  town,  eating  his  heart  out, 
and  writing  a  great  book  to  the  praise  of  an  ungrateful 
or  perhaps  forgetful  master. 

"The  most  curious  thing  of  all,"  said  Rosny,  "is  that 
we  shall  always  love  him — put  down  his  fickleness  to  the 
account  of  others,  cherish  him  as  a  deceived  woman  does 
the  man  from  whom  she  cannot  wholly  tear  her  heart !" 

"Yes,"  cried  a  new  voice,  as  a  red  hassock  of  hair 
showed  itself  over  the  brown  Capuchin's  robe,  "these 
things  we  will  do — some  of  us  in  exile,  all  in  sorrow,  some 
in  rags,  and  some  in  motley " 

He  opened  the  robe  wider,  and  under  the  stained  brown 
the  jester's  motley  met  their  eyes. 


The  White  Plume  119 

"Who  is  this  fool  who  mixes  so  freely  in  the  councils 
of  his  betters  ?"  cried  Turenne.  "Is  there  never  a  wooden 
horse  and  a  provost-marshal  in  this — this  ball-room?" 

But  Rosny,  whose  business  it  was  to  know  all  things, 
had  had  dealings  with  Jean-aux-Choux. 

"It  is  the  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries!"  he  whispered, 
"a  wise  man,  they  say — bachelor  of  Geneva,  a  deacon  at 
the  trade  of  theology,  and  all  that !" 

"I  see  nothing  for  it,"  D'Aubigne  interrupted  drily, 
"but  that  we  should  agree  to  put  all  three  Henries  into 
motley,  and  set  Jean-aux-Choux  on  the  throne !" 

"Speak  your  mind  plainly,  Jean-aux-Choux,"  cried 
Turenne  peremptorily ;  "we  are  none  of  us  of  the  Three 
Henries.  And  we  will  bear  no  fooling.  What  is  your 
message  to  us — Sir  Fool  with  the  Death's  Head?  Out 
with  it,  and  briefly." 

Jean-aux-Choux  waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 
bridge  of  Gargilesse. 

"Yonder — yonder,"  he  said,  "is  your  answer  coming  to 
you!" 

Beyond  the  crowded  roofs  of  the  old  town,  thatched 
and  tiled,  the  white  track  to  Gargilesse  and  Croizant 
meandered  amid  the  sparse  and  sunburnt  vegetation  of 
autumn.  Sparks  of  light,  stars  seen  at  noonday,  began 
to  dance  behind  the  little  broomy  knolls,  where  the  pods 
were  cracking  open  merrily  in  the  heat  of  the  sun. 

"They  are  spears,"  cried  the  well-advised  veterans  of 
the  south,  men  of  the  old  Huguenot  guard.  "Who 
comes  ?  None  from  that  direction  to  do  us  any  good !" 

Then  Rosny,  who,  in  moments  of  action,  could  make 
every  one  afraid  of  him,  with  his  fair  skin  and  the  false 
air  of  innocence  on  liis  face,  in  which  two  blue  eyes 
strange  and  stern  were  set,  rode  up  to  the  King  and, 
bidding  him  leave  ribbons  and  sashes  to  give  his  mind 


120  The  White  Plume 

for  a  moment  to  sword-points,  he  indicated,  without  an 
unnecessary  word,  the  cavalcade  which  approached  from 
the  south. 

Henry  of  Navarre,  who  was  never  angered  by  a  just 
rebuke,  instantly  left  the  ladies  with  whom  he  had  been 
jesting,  and  jumping  on  horseback,  rode  right  up  to  the 
top  of  a  steep  bank,  which  commanded  the  bridge  by 
which  the  horsemen  must  cross. 

There  he  remained  for  a  long  while,  none  daring  to 
speak  further  to  him.  For  again,  in  a  moment,  he  had 
become  the  war-captain.  Though  not  very  tall  when  on 
foot,  the  Bearnais  sat  his  horse  like  a  centaur,  and  it  was 
said  of  him,  that  the  fiercer  the  fray,  the  closer  Henry 
gripped  his  knees,  and  the  looser  the  rein  with  which  he 
rode  into  the  smother. 

"Why,"  he  cried,  setting  his  gloved  hands  on  either 
hip,  "it  is  Margot — my  wife  Margot,  with  another 
retinue  of  silks  and  furbelows !" 

And  the  Bearnais  laughed  aloud. 

"Check  and  checkmate  for  the  old  apothecary's  daugh- 
ter," he  chuckled.  "After  all,  our  little  Margot  is 
spirituelle,  though  she  and  I  do  not  get  on  together." 

And  setting  spurs  to  his  charger,  he  rode  on  far  ahead 
of  all  his  gentlemen  to  welcome  the  Queen  of  Navarre  at 
the  bridge-head  of  Argenton.  There  he  dismounted,  and 
throwing  the  reins  to  the  nearest  groom,  he  walked  to 
the  bridle  of  a  lady,  who,  fair,  fresh,  and  smiling,  came 
ambling  easily  up  on  a  white  Arab. 

It  was  Marguerite  of  Valois,  his  wife,  who  five  years 
ago  had  possessed  herself  of  the  strong  castle  of  Usson 
in  Auvergne.  Sole  daughter  of  one  king  of  France,  sole 
sister  of  three  others,  and  wife  of  the  King  of  Navarre, 
Marguerite  of  Valois  had  been  a  spoiled  beauty  from  her 
earliest  years.  The  division  of  blame  is  no  easy  matter, 


The  White  Plume  121 

but  certainly  the  Bearnais  was  not  the  right  man  to  tame 
and  keep  a  butterfly-spirit  like  that  of  "La  Reine 
Margot." 

The  marriage  had  been  made  and  finished  in  the  terrible 
days  which  preceded  the  Saint  Bartholomew.  The  two 
Queens  of  France  and  Navarre  had  the  business  in  hand. 
It  had  been  baptised  in  torrents  of  Protestant  blood  on 
that  fatal  night  when  the  Guise  ladies  watched  at  their 
windows,  while  beneath  the  Leaguers  silently  bound 
the  white  crosses  on  their  brows.  Indeed,  from  the  side 
of  Catherine  de  Medici,  the  marriage  of  Henry  of  Na- 
varre and  Marguerite  of  Valois  had  been  arranged  with 
the  single  proper  intent  of  bringing  Coligny,  Conde, 
and  the  other  great  Huguenots  to  the  shambles  prepared 
for  them. 

It  served  its  purpose  well ;  but  when  her  mother,  Cath- 
erine de  Medici,  and  her  royal  brothers  would  gladly 
have  broken  off  the  marriage,  Margot's  will  was  the 
firmest  of  any.  But  though  there  was  little  of  good  in 
the  life  of  the  Queen  Margot,  there  was  ever  something 
good  in  her  heart. 

She  refused  to  be  separated  from  her  husband  merely 
to  serve  the  intrigues  of  the  Queen-Mother  and  the 
Guises. 

"Once  already  I  have  been  sacrificed  to  your  plots," 
she  said.  "Because  of  that,  I  have  a  husband  who  will 
never  love  me.  A  night  of  blood  stands  between  us. 
Yet  will  I  do  nothing  against  him,  because  he  is  my 
husband.  Nor  yet  for  you,  my  kinsfolk,  because  ye  paid 
me  away  like  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  which  Judas 
scattered  in  the  potter's  field.  I  was  the  price  of  blood," 
so  she  taunted  her  mother,  "and  for  that  my  husband 
will  never  love  me !" 

No,  it  was  not  for  that,  as  history  and  legend  tell  all 


122  Ike  White  Plume 

too  plainly ;  but  she  was  a  woman,  and  had  the  woman's 
right  to  explain  the  matter  so. 

Rather,  it  was  the  root-difference  of  all  lack  of  com- 
mon interest  and  mutual  love.  Two  young  people,  with 
different  upbringings,  with  mothers  wide  apart  as  the 
heaven  of  Jeanne  d'Albret  and  the  inferno  of  the  Medici, 
were  suddenly  thrown  together  with  no  bond  save  that 
of  years  to  unite  them.  Each  went  a  several  way — 
neither  the  right  way — and  there  is  small  wonder  that  the 
result  of  such  a  marriage  was  only  unhappiness. 

Said  Henry  of  Navarre  to  Rosny,  his  best  confidant, 
when  there  was  question  of  his  own  wedding : 

"Seven  things  are  needed  in  the  woman  I  ought  to 
marry." 

" Seven  is  a  great  number,  Your  Majesty,"  answered 
the  Right  Hand  of  the  Bearnais ;  "but  tell  them  to  me, 
and  I  will  at  least  cause  search  to  be  made.  I  will  make 
proclamation  for  the  lady  who  can  put  her  foot  into  seven 
glass  slippers,  each  one  smaller  than  the  other !" 

"First,  then,"  said  the  King  of  Navarre,  posing  a  fore- 
finger on  the  palm  of  his  other  hand,  and  speaking  sagely, 
as  a  master  setting  out  the  steps  of  a  proposition,  "she 
must  have  beauty  of  person !" 

"Good,"  said  Rosny ;  "Your  Majesty  has  doubtless  satis- 
fied himself  that  there  are  such  to  be  found  in  the  land — 
once  or  twice !" 

"Wait,  Rosny — let  me  finish!"  said  the  King,  and 
so  continued  his  enumeration  of  wifely  necessities,  as  they 
appeared  to  a  great  prince  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

"Item,  she  must  be  modest  in  her  life,  of  a  happy 
humour,  vivid  in  spirit,  ready  in  affection,  eminent  in 
extraction,  and  possessed  of  great  estates  in  her  own 
right !" 

For  all  answer  Rosny  held  up  his  hands. 


The  White  Plume  123 

"I  know — I  know,"  smiled  the  Bearnais,  "you  would 
say  to  me  that  this  marvel  of  womankind  has  been  dead 
some  time.  I  would  rather  say  to  you  that  she  has  never 
been  born !" 

So  it  came  about  that  Marguerite,  the  pretty,  foolish 
butterfly  of  the  Valois  courts,  and  her  Bearnais  husband, 
rough,  soldiering,  far-seeing,  politic,  had  not  seen  each 
other  for  five  years.  Marguerite  had  shut  herself  up  in 
the  castle  of  Usson,  one  of  the  dread  prison  fortresses 
built  by  "that  fox,"  Louis  the  Eleventh. 

Though  sent  almost  as  a  prisoner  there,  or  at  least 
under  observation,  she  had  speedily  possessed  herself  of 
castle  and  castellan,  guard  and  officers,  kitchen  scullions 
and  gardener  valets.  For  she  had  the  open  hand,  espe- 
cially when  the  money  was  not  her  own,  the  ready  wit, 
and  above  all,  the  charming  smile,  though  even  that 
meant  nothing.  At  least,  Margot  the  Queen  was  not 
malicious ;  and  so  it  was  without  any  fear,  but  rather 
with  the  sort  of  silent  amusement  with  which  we  applaud 
a  child's  new  trick,  that  the  King  dismounted,  kissed  his 
wife's  hand,  answered  her  gay  greetings,  and  even  cast 
a  critic's  eye  on  the  array  of  beauties  who  followed  in  her 
train. 

Many  gallant  gentlemen  of  the  south  also  accompanied 
her.  Raimonds  and  Castellanes  were  there,  Princes  of 
Baux  and  Seigneurs  de  la  Tour — all  willing  at  once  to 
visit  the  camp  of  Bearnais  and  to  testify  their  loyalty  to 
the  Court  of  France.  For  in  the  south,  the  League  and 
the  Guises  had  made  but  little  progress. 

"Why,  Margot,  what  brings  you  hither?"  said  the 
Bearnais,  as  he  paced  along  by  his  wife's  side,  while  the 
suite  had  dropped  far  enough  behind  for  them  to  speak 
freely. 

"Well,  husband  mine,"  said  the  Queen  Margot,  "you 


124  The  White  Plume 

have  been  a  bad  boy  to  me,  and  if  I  had  not  been  mine 
own  sweet  self,  you  and  my  brother  (peace  to  his  ashes, 
as  soon  as  he  is  dead !)  would  have  shut  me  up  in  a  big, 
dull  castle  to  do  needlework  alone  with  a  cat  and  a 
duenna.  But  I  was  too  clever  for  you.  And,  after  that, 
they  poisoned  your  mind  against  little  Margot — oh,  I 
know.  So  I  do  not  blame  you  greatly,  Henry.  Also, 
I  have  a  temper  that  is  trying  at  short  range — I  admit  it. 
So  I  am  come  to  make  up — at  least,  if  you  will.  And 
further,  if  by  chance  my  good,  simple  mother  and  that 
gallant,  crafty  Epernon  lad  have  any  tricks  to  try  upon 
you — why,  then  I  have  brought  a  bag  of  them  too,  and 
can  play  them,  trick  for  trick,  till  we  win — you  and  I, 
Harry!" 

Margot  the  Queen  waved  her  hand  to  the  covey  of 
beauties  who  rode  behind  her. 

"I  would  say  that  they  are  all  queens  of  beauty,"  she 
said,  smiling  down  at  him;  "but  do  you  know  (I  am 
speaking  humbly  because  I  know  well  that  you  do  not 
agree)  I  am  the  only  really  pretty  queen  in  the  world?" 

"As  to  that  I  do  most  heartily  take  oath,"  said  the 
Bearnais. 

"Ah,  but,"  said  Margot,  touching  him  gently  on  the 
cheek  with  the  lash  of  her  riding-whip,  "I  mind  well  how 
you  swore  you  would  wed  the  Queen  of  England,  provided 
she  brought  you  that  rich  land — aye,  though  she  had  as 
many  wrinkles  on  her  brow  as  the  sea  that  surrounds 
her  isle — or  even  the  Infanta  of  Spain,  old  and  wizened 
as  a  last  year's  pippin,  if  only  she  brought  you  in  dower 
the  Low  Countries !" 

"Ah,  Margot,"  said  Henry,  smiling  up  at  his  wife, 
"and  I  thought  it  was  your  sole  boast  that  you  never 
cast  up  old  stories!  You  always  found  new  ones — or 
made  them !" 


The  White  Plume  125 

"I  did  but  tease,"  she  said ;  "but  indeed,  for  all  my 
mother  is  so  ill,  this  is  no  time  for  jesting.  I  have  come 
to  see  that  you  get  fair  play  among  them  all,  my  little 
friend  Henry.  Though  you  love  me  not  greatly,  and 
I  did  sometimes  throw  the  table-equipage  at  your  head, 
yet  Margot  of  France  and  Navarre  is  not  the  woman  to 
see  her  husband  wronged — least  of  all  by  her  own  mother 
and  that  good,  excellent,  mignon-loving  brother  of  mine, 
the  King-titular  of  some  small  remnant  of  France." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
'MATE   AND   CHECKMATE 

AT  this  moment  the  litter  of  Catherine  de  Medici  was 
seen  approaching.  D'Epernon  had  hastened  to  tell  her 
of  the  unexpected  arrival  of  her  daughter,  the  Queen  of 
Navarre. 

"No,  it  cannot  be — she  is  safe  at  Usson,  entertaining 
all  the  Jackass-erie  of  Auvergne!"  cried  the  Queen- 
Mother,  hastily  wrapping  herself  in  a  bundle  of  dark 
cloaks,  with  the  ermine  sleeves  and  sable  collars,  which 
the  thinness  of  her  blood  caused  her  to  wear  even  in  the 
heat  of  the  dog-days.  Scoffers  declared  she  was  getting 
ready  for  the  hereafter  by  accustoming  herself  gradually 
to  the  climate.  But  those  who  knew  better  were  aware 
that  the  vital  heat  was  at  long  and  last  slowly  oozing 
from  that  once  tireless  body,  though  the  brain  above 
remained  clear  and  subtle  to  the  end. 

D'Epernon  helped  the  Queen-Mother  into  the  litter 
of  ebony  and  gold  in  which  she  journeyed.  She  called 
for  her  maids-of -honour,  but  was  informed  that  they  were 
all  busied  with  welcoming  the  new  arrivals. 

Then  the  face  of  Catherine  took  on  a  hard  and  bitter 
expression. 

"This  is  not  the  first  nor  the  second  time  that  Margot 
has  outwitted  me" — she  almost  hissed  the  words,  yet  not 
so  low  but  D'Epernon  caught  them.  "Has  ever  a  woman 
who  has  given  all,  done  all  for  her  family,  been  cursed 
with  sons  who  will  do  nothing  even  to  save  themselves, 
and  a  daughter  whose  pleasure  it  is  to  thwart  the  mother 


The  White  Plume  127 

who  bore  her  ?  But — patience,  all  is  not  yet  iost !  Wait 
a  while.  Little  Margot  of  the  Large  Heart  may  not  be 
so  clever  as  she  thinks !" 

Yet  so  artful  was  the  dissimulation  of  both  women  that 
when  at  last  they  approached  each  other,  Margot,  the 
Queen  of  Navarre,  threw  herself  into  her  mother's  arms, 
and  hid  her  face  (possibly,  also,  her  emotion)  on  her 
shoulder,  while  Catherine  wept  real,  visible,  globular  tears 
over  her  one  daughter,  whom  she  embraced  after  so  many 
years. 

Only  D'Epernon  knew  that  they  were  tears  of  rage  and 
mortification. 

It  was  when  husband  and  wife  were  left  alone  on  the 
broad  balcony  of  the  Mansion  of  the  Palmer,  by  the 
southern  river-front  of  Argenton — the  Creuse,  sweetest 
and  daintiest  of  streams  in  a  land  all  given  over  to 
such,  slipping  dreamily  by — that  Margot  told  the  Bear- 
nais  why  she  had  come. 

"Do  not  thank  me,"  she  said;  "you  have  that  Hugue- 
not sister  of  yours  to  thank — a  good,  brave  girl,  too 
good  to  be  married  as  I  was  (and  as  you  were,  my  poor 
Henry!)  for  polities'  sake  and  a  few  more  acres  of 
land.  Also,  you  owe  it  to  the  good  counsels  of  yonder 
Scottish  maid,  called  Claire  Agnew,  who " 

Henry  rose  from  the  low  chair  on  which  he  had  been 
carelessly  resting  his  thigh. 

"Why,  I  remember  the  girl" — he  threw  up  his  hands 
in  humorous  despair.  "Oh,  you  women,  a  man  never 
knows  when  he  will  have  you !  I  thought  that  you,  Mar- 
got,  my  wife,  would  have  been  at  Usson  flying  your 
hawks,  and  gathering  snails  for  the  Friday's  pot-au-feu; 
that  Catherine,  my  admirable  sister,  had  been  safe  at  her 
prayers  in  the  Castle  of  Pau,  where  I  left  her  in  good 
charge  and  keeping;  and  of  my  carefulness  I  had  even 


128  The  White  Plume 

provided  that  this  Scots  maiden,  the  daughter  of  my 
good  friend  Francis  Agnew,  should  abide  in  douce  tran- 
quillity with  her  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne,  within  ear- 
shot, not  to  say  pistol-shot,  of  a  certain  Anthony  Arpa- 
jon,  a  sure  henchman  of  mine,  in  the  town  of  Blois.  But 
here  be  all  three  of  you  gadding  at  my  heels,  Margaret 
from  Auvergne,  Catherine  from  Pau,  and  even  the  Scots 
maid  from  Blois,  all  blown  inward  like  so  many  seagulls 
on  the  front  of  a  westerly  storm !" 

"Harry,"  cried  Margot  the  Queen,  "your  beard  is 
frosting,  and  there  are  white  hairs  on  my  coif  at  thirty- 
eight.  Yes,  there  are ;  you  need  not  look,  for,  of  course, 
I  have  the  wit  to  hide  them.  We  have  not  agreed  well, 
you  and  I.  But  I  like  you,  great  lumping  swash- 
buckler of  Beam.  Even  as  the  husband  I  was  not  allowed 
to  choose,  I  like  you.  If  you  had  been  any  one  else,  I 
might  even  have  loved  you !" 

"Thanks — it  is  indeed  quite  possible!"  said  the  King 
quietly. 

"But  since  they  wrote  it  in  a  catechism,  learned  it  me 
by  rote,  made  me  swallow  love  and  obedience  willy-nilly 
before  half-a-dozen  cardinals  and  archbishops  glorious, 
why  then,  of  course,  it  was  'nilly'  and  not  'willy.'  So 
things  have  gone  crosswise  with  us.  But  there's  my  hand 
on't,  Henry.  In  all  save  love,  I  will  serve  you  true.  Not 
even  your  beloved  Rosny  and  dour  D'Aubigne  will  help 
you  better,  or  expect  less  for  it,  than  I,  Margot,  Your 
Majesty's  humble  prisoner!" 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  King,  kissing  her  hand,  and  passing 
over  all  that  was  not  expressed  in  this  very  sketchy  view 
of  the  case ;  "I  have  found  many  to  betray  me  who  owed 
me  more  than  you,  Margot.  But  never  you,  my  little 
Queen." 

"Thank  you,  Henry,"  quoth  La  Reine  Margot,  smiling 


The  White  Plume  129 

demurely,  with  something  of  the  subtle  Italian  irony  of 
her  mother.  "Perhaps,  after  all,  I  do  not  help  you  so 
much  because  I  like  you  as  because  I  love  to  spite  some 
other  people  who  are  plotting  against  you." 

"Are  they  seeking  my  life,  Margot?"  said  the  King. 
"Well,  there  is  nothing  new  in  that.  I  always  keep  a 
man  or  two  on  the  look-out  for  assassins.  I  have  quite 
a  collection  of  knives — some  Guisard,  and  some  Italian, 
but  mostly  of  Toledo  make.  There  are  four  gates  to  my 
camp,  and  the  men  of  my  guard  kick  the  varlets  south 
if  the  knife  smells  of  our  brother  Philip,  north  to  cousin 
Guise,  if  'Lorraine'  is  marked  on  the  blade — and  as  for 
Italy " 

"Do  not  say  any  evil  of  Italy,"  smiled  Margot ;  "pray 
remember  that  I  am  half  Italian — therefore  I  am  fair, 
therefore  I  am  cunning,  therefore  I  am  rich — at  least,  in 
expedients." 

The  Bearnais  said  nothing,  for  having  so  many  war 
charges,  he  had  more  than  once  refused  to  pay  Madame 
Margot's  debts ! 

"I  have  come,"  she  continued,  after  the  King  had  sat 
some  time  silent  on  the  tapestried  couch  beside  her,  look- 
ing out  on  the  sleeping  Creuse,  "first  of  all,  to  see  that 
you  sign  no  treaty  that  I  do  not  approve.  Well  do  I 
know  that  a  woman  has  only  to  smile  upon  you  to  make 
you  say  'Yes.'  It  is  your  weakness.  The  Queen,  my 
mother,  knows  it  also,  and  she  has  brought  hither  many 
fair  women  in  her  train.  But  none  so  fair  as  I,  your 
wife — your  wife  Margot,  whom  camps,  and  wars,  and 
kingdoms  have  made  you  sometimes  forget !" 

"There  is,  indeed,  no  one  so  fair  as  you,  little  Mar- 
got!"  said  her  husband.  And,  for  the  moment,  he 

meant  it. 

«  *  *  *  * 


130  The  White  Plume 

Margot  the  Queen  entered  her  tiring-room  that  night 
clapping  her  hands,  and  dancing  little  skipping  "taran- 
tellas" all  to  herself,  after  the  Italian  fashion. 

"I  have  done  this  all  by  myself  at  eight-and-thirty," 
she  cried.  "I  thought  I  was  no  longer  Parisian,  after 
so  many  years  of  hiding  my  head  in  Auvergne.  But 
Henry  never  moved  from  my  side  all  evening,  and  as 
for  D'Epernon,  he  was  as  close  as  might  be  on  the  other. 
Come  in,  girls !  I  have  much  to  tell  you." 

She  rose,  and  threw  her  arms  about  the  neck  of  her 
sister-in-law,  Catherine  of  Navarre.  She  had  entered, 
flushed,  walking  so  fast  that  her  slight  D'Albret  limp  was 
not  noticeable. 

"Oh,  we  three,"  cried  the  Queen  Margot — "we  three 
were  as  Juno,  Minerva  and  Venus.  The  men  stood 
round,  and  gazed  and  listened,  and  listened  and  gazed, 
each  like  a  stupid  Paris  with  a  golden  apple  in  his  hand, 
a  prize  of  beauty  which  he  wanted  to  give  to  all  three 
at  once.  You,  Katrin,  my  sister,  were  tfie  grey-eyed 
Minerva ;  you,  Claire,  must  be  Juno — though,  my  faith, 
you  are  more  of  the  mould  of  Dian ;  but  as  for  me — 
of  course,  that  is  obvious !  And  the  defeated  enemy — 
the  maids  of  honour !  Ha !  Did  you  see  how  the  Queen, 
my  mother,  called  them  in  to  heel,  like  so  many  useless 
hounds  of  the  chase,  to  receive  their  whippings?  How 
they  cowered  and  cringed !  Truly,  the  game  was  carried 
off  by  another  pack — a  buck — a  buck  royal  of  ten  times 
is  the  Bearnais.  We  had  a  plot  indeed — but  no  treaty. 
Pricked  like  a  wind-bladder  it  was.  If  I  am  a  feeble 
house-wife,  I  am  at  least  a  true  ambassador,  and  they 
shall  not  cheat  my  husband — not  while  little  Margot  lives, 
last  of  the  Valois  and  half  Medici  though  she  be!  To 
bed,  girls,  and  get  your  beauty-sleep.  You  will  need  it 
to-morrow !" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  APOSTLE  OF  PEACE 

"SHE  may  be  a  witch,  and  the  daughter  of  Jezebel," 
murmured  D'Aubigne  low  to  Rosny,  "but  this  time,  of 
a  verity,  she  has  snatched  the  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire 
for  us !" 

"I  would  she  were  safe  back  again  in  Auvergne,"  said 
Rosny ;  "our  Henry  is  never  himself  when  he  gets  among 
that  crew." 

The  two  Huguenot  chiefs  spoke  truly.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  the  Queen  of  Navarre  had  outwitted  her 
mother,  and  strengthened  the  warlike  resolutions  of  the 
Bearnais,  so  that  he  refused  all  art  or  part  in  the  gather- 
ing of  the  States-General  at  Blois. 

Catherine,  the  Queen-Mother,  had  to  depart  ill-satisfied 
enough.  The  little  town  of  Argenton  dropped  back 
again  into  its  year-long  quiet.  Gallantly  Henry  escorted 
his  wife  part  way  to  her  castle  of  Usson,  and  so  far,  at 
least,  husband  and  wife  were  reconciled.  As  for  the 
Princess  Catherine,  she  was  sent  off  with  a  guard  of 
gentlemen  to  Nerac,  while  once  more  in  Blois  the  house 
of  Madame  Granier,  close  to  the  hostelry  of  Anthony 
Arpajon,  was  occupied  by  its  trio  of  guests.  At  least, 
Claire  and  the  Professor  abode  continually  there,  and 
took  their  pleasant  walks  in  the  quickly-shortening  days 
of  autumn.  The  willows  began  to  drop  their  narrow 
flame-shaped  leaves  into  the  current  of  the  Loire  after 
every  gust.  And  in  the  windless  dawns,  as  soon  as  the 
sun  struck  the  long  alignment  of  ashes,  these  dainty 


132  The  White  Plume 

trees  proceeded  to  denude  themselves  of  their  greenery 
with  sharp  little  reports  like  toy  pistols. 

As  for  Jean-aux-Choux,  he  had  great  business  on  hand. 
Every  day  he  invented  some  new  folly  at  the  Chateau. 
He  laughed  with  the  pages,  who  told  their  masters,  who 
in  turn  told  their  ladies.  And  so  all  the  world  soon  knew 
that  the  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries  was  to  be  present 
at  the  meeting  of  Parliament.  Well,  so  much  the 
better.  In  such  times  they  needed  some  diversion. 

Jean  came  little  to  Anthony  the  Calvinist's  hostel.  That 
was  too  dangerous.  Yet  often  by  night  he  would  slip 
through  the  little  river-door  which  opened  into  the  court- 
yard of  Madame  Granier's  house,  to  talk  a  while  with  his 
dead  master's  daughter  and  her  Professor — also  to  ob- 
serve, with  his  small  twinkling  grey  eyes,  the  lie  of  the 
land. 

Indeed,  it  was  a  time  in  which  to  be  mightily  circum- 
spect. The  town  of  Blois  was  filled  to  overflowing  with 
all  the  hot-heads  of  the  League.  The  demagogues  of 
Paris,  the  full  Council  of  the  Sixteen,  led  by  Chapelle 
Marteau  and  Launay,  cheered  on  the  princes  of  Lorraine 
to  execute  their  firm  intention  of  coercing  Henry  III., 
and  compelling  him  to  deliver  the  crown  into  the  hands 
of  the  Duke  of  Guise  and  his  brothers — the  princes  of  the 
House  of  Lorraine. 

By  permission  of  the  Bearnais,  to  whom,  as  his  cousin 
and  chieftain,  the  Abbe  John  had  now  made  solemn  offer 
of  his  allegiance,  that  youth  was  permitted  to  remain  as 
an  additional  pair  of  eyes  in  the  Chateau  itself — and 
also,  he  told  himself,  as  a  good  sword,  not  too  far  away, 
in  case  any  harm  should  threaten  Claire  in  her  river-side 
lodging. 

The  green  robe  of  the  Professor  of  Eloquence,  with 
its  fur  sleeves  and  golden  collar  now  wholly  repaired  by 


The  White  Plume  133 

the  clever  fingers  of  Claire,  whose  care  for  her  father's 
wardrobe  had  given  her  skill  in  needlework,  passed  to 
and  fro  in  all  the  stairways  and  corridors  of  the  Chateau. 
He  was  welcome  to  the  King,  who  knew  the  classic 
orators,  and  had  devoted  much  time  to  the  cultivation  of 
a  ready  and  fluent  mode  of  address.  And  it  was,  indeed, 
no  other  than  our  excellent  Professor  Anatole  who  pre- 
pared and  set  in  order,  with  sounding  words  and  cun- 
ning allusions,  the  famous  opening  speech  of  the  King 
to  his  nobles  on  the  18th  of  October,  1588. 

Altogether,  the  privileges  of  our  friends  at  this  time 
were  many,  and  the  Leaguers  did  not  seriously  incom- 
mode them.  D'Epernon,  who  was  thoroughly  loyal  to 
Henry  III.,  and  for  the  time  being,  at  least,  meant  to 
keep  the  agreements  made  on  his  master's  behalf  with 
the  Bearnais,  stood  ready  in  Angouleme,  with  all  the 
Royalists  he  could  muster. 

As  far  as  Blois  itself  was  concerned,  however,  the  Guis- 
ards  and  the  champions  of  the  League  would  have 
swamped  all,  save  for  the  threat  of  a  strong  Hugue- 
not force  hovering  in  the  neighbourhood.  This  rest- 
less army  was  occasionally  reported  from  Tours,  again 
from  Loches,  from  Limoges,  so  that  the  Leaguers,  though 
of  incomparable  insolence,  dared  Jiot,  at  that  time,  push 
the  King  of  France  directly  into  the  arms  of  the 
Bearnais. 

But  we  may  as  well  hear  the  thing  reported  by  eye- 
witnesses. 

Cautiously,  as  was  her  custom,  Madame  Granier  had 
peered  through  the  thick  grille  of  the  water-door  before 
admitting  the  Professor  and  the  Abbe  John.  Silent  as 
a  spectre  Anthony  Arpajon  had  entered  from  the  other 
side  by  his  own  private  passage,  locking  the  iron  port 
behind  him.  They  sat  together  in  Dame  Granier's  wide 


134  The  White  Plume 

kitchen,  without  any  lighting  of  lamps  or  candles.  But 
the  wood  burned  red  on  the  hearth,  above  which  Dame 
Granier  kept  deftly  shifting  the  pot-au-feu,  so  that  none 
of  its  contents  might  be  burned. 

Each  time  she  did  so  she  thrust  in  underneath  smaller 
branches,  gleaned  from  last  year's  willow-pollarding. 
The  light  flared  up  sharply  with  little  spitting,  crackling 
noises,  so  that  all  in  the  kitchen  saw  each  other  clearly. 

Now  they  discussed  matters  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
Chateau.  That  was  the  Professor,  with  a  little  assistance 
from  John  d'Albret,  a  poor  prince  of  the  blood  some- 
few-times-removed.  They  talked  it  over  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  town.  It  was  Anthony 'Arpaj  on  who  led, 
the  widow  Granier  adding  a  word  or  two.  They  heard,  in 
a  low  whisper,  the  most  private  states  of  mind  of  the  King, 
seen  only  by  those  who  had  the  right  to  penetrate  into  his 
cabinet.  It  was  a  red-haired,  keen-eyed  fanatic  who 
spoke  of  this,  with  the  accent  and  Biblical  phraseology 
of  Geneva — namely,  one  Johannus  Stirling,  Doctor  in 
Theology,  commonly  denominated  Jean-aux-Choux,  the 
Fool  of  the  Three  Henries. 

As  for  Claire  Agnew,  she  gazed  steadily  into  the  fire, 
elbow  on  knee,  her  rounded  chin  set  in  the  palm  of  her 
hand,  and  her  dark  curls  pushing  themselves  in  dusky 
confusion  about  her  cheek.  The  Abbe  John  was  the  only 
person  at  all  uneasy.  Yet  it  was  not  the  distant  dubious 
sounds  from  the  town  which  troubled  him,  nor  yet  the 
cries  of  the  boatmen  of  St.  Victor  dropping  down  under 
the  bridge  of  Vienne,  the  premier  arch  of  which  sprang 
immediately  out  by  the  gable  of  Dame  Granier's  house. 

No,  the  Abbe  John  was  uneasy  because  he  wished  to 
move  his  little  three-legged  stool  nearer  to  the  black 
oaken  settle  at  the  corner  of  which  sat  Claire  Agnew. 

The  Leaguers  might  seize  his  person  to  make  him  a 


The  White  Plume  135 

king — in  default  of  better.  Well,  he  would  keep  out  of 
their  way.  His  cousin,  the  Bearnais,  would  certainly 
give  him  a  company  in  the  best-ordered  army  in  the 
world.  His  other  yet  more  distant  cousin,  Philip  of 
Spain,  would,  if  he  caught  him,  present  him  with  a  neat 
arrangement  in  yellow,  with  flames  and  devils  painted 
in  red  all  over  it.  Then,  all  for  the  glory  of  God,  he 
would  burn  him  alive  because  of  consorting  with  the 
heretic. 

Many  careers  were  thus  opening  to  the  young  man. 
But  just  at  present,  and,  indeed,  ever  since  he  had  looked 
at  her  across  the  dead  man,  stretched  so  starkly  out 
among  the  themes  and  lectures  on  Professor  Anatole's 
Sorbonne  table,  John  d'Albret  had  felt  that  his  true 
call  in  life  was  to  minister  to  the  happiness  of  Mistress 
Claire  Agnew,  and  incidentally,  in  so  doing,  to  his  own. 

Of  this  purpose,  of  course,  Mistress  Claire  was  pro- 
foundly unconscious.  That  was  why  she  looked  so  steadily 
at  the  fire,  and  appeared  to  be  revolving  great  problems 
of  state.  But  it  is  certain,  all  the  same,  that  no  one 
else  of  all  that  company  was  deceived,  not  even  sturdy 
Anthony  Arpajon,  who  so  far  forgot  himself,  being 
a  widower  and  a  Calvinist,  as  to  wink  behind  backs  at 
Dame  Granier  when  she  was  bringing  up  a  new  armful 
of  dried  orchard  prunings  to  help  boil  the  pot. 

"I  for  one  would  not  sleep  comfortably  in  the  Duke 
of  Guise's  bed  at  night,"  said  the  Professor  sententiously. 
"I  spoke  to-day  with  that  brigand  D'O,  whose  name  is 
as  short  as  his  sword  is  long,  also  with  Guast,  the  man 
who  goes  about  with  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  dagger, 
familiarly,  as  if  it  were  a  whistle  to  call  his  scent-dogs 
to  heel.  No,  I  thank  God  I  am  but  a  poor  Professor  of 
the  Sorbonne — and  even  so,  displaced.  Not  for  ten 
thousand  shields  would  I  sleep  in  the  Duke's  bed." 


136  The  White  Plume 

"Perhaps  that  is  the  reason,"  suggested  Jean-aux- 
Choux  darkly,  "why  he  prefers  so  often  that  of  his  friend 
Monsieur  de  Noirmoutier.  He  is  afraid  of  seeing  the 
curtains  put  suddenly  back  and,  through  the  mists  of  his 
last  sleep,  the  dark  faces  of  the  assassins  and  the  gleam- 
ing of  their  daggers !  Yet  why  should  either  you  or  he 
be  afraid — a  gurgle,  a  sigh,  and  all  would  be  over !" 

A  shudder  moved  the  shoulders  of  Claire  as  she  drew 
nearer  to  the  blaze,  and,  by  consequence,  further  from 
the  restless  encroachments  of  the  Abbe  John's  three- 
legged  stool. 

"He  is  a  brave  man,  though  he  has  done  such  ill," 
she  said,  sighing.  "I  love  brave  men !" 

The  Abbe  John  instantly  resolved  to  demand  the  cap- 
taincy of  a  forlorn  hope  from  the  Bearnais,  and  so  charge 
single-handed  upon  the  ramparts  of  Paris. 

But  the  Professor  of  the  Sorbonne  would  listen  to 
no  praise  whatsoever  of  the  Guises.  "The  Duke,"  he 
averred,  "spins  his  courage  out  of  the  weakness  of  others. 
He  takes  the  King  of  France  for  a  coward.  'He  does 
not  dare  slay  me,'  he  boasts;  'I  am  safe  in  his  castle  as 
in  mine  own  house.  If  Henry  of  Valois  slew  me,  he 
would  have  three-quarters  of  his  realm  about  his  ears  in 
a  week !  And  what  is  better,  he  knows  it !'  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Abbe  John,  speaking  for  the  first  time ; 
"and  I  heard  his  sister,  Madame  de  Montpensier,  say 
only  to-day  that  she  and  her  brother  Henry  were  going 
to  give  the  King  the  third  of  the  three  crowns  on  his 
scutcheon.  He  has  been  King  of  Poland,  he  is  King  of 
France,  and  the  third  crown  represents  the  heavenly 
crown  which  will  soon  be  his.  Alternately,  she  exhibits 
to  all  comers,  even  in  the  antechamber  of  the  King,  the 
golden  scissors  with  which  she  is  going  to  cut  a  tonsure 
for  'Brother  Henry,'  as  she  calls  him — the  Monk  Henrj} 


The  White  Plume  137 

of  that  order  of  the  Penitents  which  he  organised  in  one 
of  his  fits  of  piety !" 

Jean-aux-Choux  shook  his  shaggy  head  like  a  huge 
water-spaniel. 

"They  flatter  themselves,  these  dogs  of  Guises,"  he 
said;  "they  fill  themselves  with  costly  wine,  that  the 
flower  of  life  pass  them  not  by.  They  hasten  to  crown 
themselves  with  rosebuds  ere  they  be  withered.  'Let 
us  leave  the  husks  of  our  pleasures  in  every  place,'  they 
say.  'For  this  is  our  lot.  We  alone  are  the  great  of  the 
earth.  The  earth  belongeth  to  Lorraine,  and  the  goodli- 
ness  thereof.  Before  us,  kings  twice-born,  cradled  in 
purple,  are  as  naught.  A  good  man  is  an  insult  to  us. 
Let  us  slay  and  make  an  end,  even  as  we  did  on  the  Eve 
of  Bartholomew,  that  we  may  pass  in  and  enjoy  the  land' 
• — such  is  their  insolence — 'from  Dan  to  Beer-sheba,  and 
from  Zidon  even  to  the  sunny  slopes  of  Engedi — lest 
we  be  too  late,  lest  we  also  pass  away,  as  in  the  sum- 
mer sky  the  trace  of  a  cloud.  For  the  Sea  of  Death 
is  beneath — the  Sea  of  Death  is  beneath !'  Aha,  Aha ! 
The  mouth  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  by  Guise,  even 
as  by  the  mouth  of  Balaam  his  ass,  in  the  strait-walled 
path  betwixt  the  two  vineyards,  as  thou  comest  unto 
Arnon !" 

At  the  voice  of  the  Fool  turned  Prophet,  all  sound 
ceased  in  the  wide  kitchen-place  of  good  Dame  Granier. 
Anthony  Arpajon  stood  rapt,  not  daring  to  move  hand  or 
foot.  For  he  believed  that  the  word  of  the  Lord  had 
entered  into  Jean-aux-Choux,  and  that  he  was  predicting 
the  fall  of  the  Guises. 

"Verily,  the  bloody  and  deceitful  man  shall  not  live 
out  half  his  days  !"  he  muttered. 

"It  were  truer,  perhaps,  to  say,"  the  Professor  inter- 
jected, "that  they  who  take  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the 


138  The  White  Plume 

sword,  and  that  those  who  arouse  in  King  Henry  of 
Valois  the  blackness  of  his  gall,  shall  perish  by  the  sword 
held  under  the  cloak — suddenly,  secretly,  with  none  to 
help,  and  with  the  sins  of  a  lifetime  as  lead  upon  their 
souls !" 

"Amen!"  cried  Jean-aux-Choux;  "stamp  on  the  ser- 
pent's eggs !  Cut  the  Guisards  off,  root  and  branch " 

"Is  not  that  only  your  own  Saint  Bartholomew  turned 
upside  down?"  demanded  the  Professor  of  Eloquence 
sharply.  "You  have  read  the  Book  of  the  Wisdom,  I 
hear.  I  would  remind  you  of  the  better  way  which  you 
will  find  written  therein.  For,  if  prudence  worketh,  what 
is  there  that  worketh  better  than  she?  You,  who  are  a 
learned  theologue,  answer  me  that !" 

"Prudence,"  cried  the  Genevan  fiercely.  "Have  not  I 
made  myself  a  fool  for  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven's  sake? 
This  is  no  time  for  prudence,  but  for  fewer  soft  answers 
and  more  sharp  swords !  Ha,  wait  till  the  Bearnais  comes 
to  his  own.  Then  there  will  be  a  day  when  the  butchers 
of  Paris  shall  cry  to  their  shambles  to  fall  on  them  and 
hide  them.  We  of  the  Faith  will  track  them  with  blood- 
hounds and  trap  them  like  rats !" 

"Then,"  retorted  the  Professor,  "if  that  be  so,  I 
solemnly  declare  that  you  of  the  Huguenots  are  no  whit 
better  than  the  Leaguers  'and  Guisards,  who  are  even 
now  seeking  my  life.  I  stand  in  the  middle  way.  May  God 
(such  is  your  cry)  give  you  victory  or  give  you  death. 
Well,  I  am  sure  that  victory  would  be  the  worst  present 
He  could  give  you,  if  such  were  the  use  you  would  make 
of  it." 

But  Jean-aux-Choux,  pupil  of  Calvin,  was  not  to  be 
put  down. 

"Have  ye  never  read  in  the  Psalms,"  he  cried,  "how 
David  said  that  the  Lord  would  arise  in  judgment  to 


The  White  Plume  139 

help  all  the  meek  of  the  earth,  and  how  that  surely  even 
the  wrath  of  man  God  would  turn  to  His  praise?" 

"I  have  also  read  in  the  same  place,"  retorted  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Eloquence,  "that  'the  remainder  of  the  wrath 
He  will  restrain.'  You  Huguenots  are  not  quite  of 
the  meek  of  the  earth.  When  one  cheek  is  smitten,  doth 
the  Bearnais  turn  the  other?  I,  for  one,  should  not  like 
to  try.  Nay,  not  even  with  good  Master  Johannus  here, 
Doctor  in  Theology,  late  of  Geneva,  commonly  known  as 
Jean-aux-Choux !" 

"If,  indeed,  you  know  a  better  way,  my  good  Doctor 
of  the  Sorbonne,"  said  Jean,  "pray  show  it  forthwith! 
I  am  open  to  conviction,  even  as  was  my  master,  John 
Calvin!" 

"That  I  will,"  quoth  the  Professor;  "if  you  will  have 
none  of  prudence,  then  seek  wisdom.  Ask  of  God.  He 
will  not  refuse  you.  Is  it  not  written  in  the  Book  that 
'Wisdom,  the  worker  of  all  things,  hath  taught  me? 
For  in  her  is  the  spirit  of  understanding — holy,  only 
begotten,  manifold,  subtle,  clear,  undefiled,  loving  the 
good  and  doing  it,  courteous,  stable,  sure,  without  care, 
having  all  power,  yet  circumspect  in  all  things — and  so, 
passing  into  all  intellectual,  pure,  and  subtle  spirits.'  So, 
indeed,  it  is  written." 

"Ah,  that  is  part  of  your  lecture  on  the  blessings  of 
peace,"  said  the  Abbe  John,  disgusted  that  he  could 
arrive  no  nearer  to  the  goal  of  his  desirings.  A  three- 
legged  stool  makes  a  courser  both  slow  and  noisy. 

"Eh,"  said  the  Professor,  "it  may  be — it  may  be.  I 
have  often  read  these  words  with  delight  and,  I  grant 
you,  I  may  have  used  them  in  another  connexion." 

"I  have  the  notes  of  the  lecture  in  my  pocket !"  said  the 
Abbe  John. 

"Hum,"  commented  Professor  Anatole,  looking  side- 


140  The  White  Plume 

long  at  his  pupil,  "it  is  well  to  find  you  so  attentive  once 
in  a  way.  At  the  Sorbonne  the  thing  did  not  happen 
too  often." 

There  was  a  short,  uncomfortable  period  of  silence, 
for  the  tone  of  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  had  been 
somewhat  rasping.  He  was  annoyed,  as  perhaps  John 
d'Albret  had  expected. 

But  he  resumed  again  after  awhile,  his  anger  having 
as  quickly  fallen. 

"I  do  not  deny  it.  I  am  by  nature  a  man  urbane.  I 
hold  with  him  who  said  that  the  worst  peace  that  ever 
was  made  is  better  than  the  best  war  that  ever  was  waged. 
I  am  of  Paul's  faction,  when  he  counselled,  'Follow  peace 
with  all  men' !" 

There  came  a  sudden  loud  knocking  at  the  river-gate. 
A  hush  and  an  awe  fell  upon  all.  Instinctively  hands 
drew  to  sword-hilts.  John  and  Anthony  leaned  forward, 
listening  intently,  hardly  daring  to  breathe.  But  the  man 
who  flung  the  door  wide  open  was  the  Apostle  of  Peace 
himself — even  Professor  Anatole  Long,  Doctor  of  the 
Sorbonne. 

Having  done  so,  he  found  himself  with  his  sword-stick 
bare  in  one  hand,  and  a  loaded  pistol  in  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
DEATH   WARNINGS 

D'EPERXON  stood  at  the  door. 

The  splendid  favourite  of  the  King  of  France  was 
attired  in  a  plain,  close-fitting  black  dress,  while  a  cloak 
of  the  like  material  dropped  from  his  shoulders.  A 
broad-brimmed  hat,  high-crowned,  and  with  a  sweeping 
black  feather,  was  on  his  head.  He  held  out  both 
hands. 

"See,  my  good  Professor,"  he  began,  "I  am  at  your 
martial  mercy.  I  have  come  without  arms,  clothed  only 
with  my  sole  innocence,  into  this  haunt  of  heretics.  Let 
me  enter.  I  am,  at  least,  a  well-wisher  of  the  white 
panache,  and  an  old  friend  of  Monsieur  Anthony  Arpa- 
jon  there!" 

The  Professor  of  Eloquence,  though  in  his  heart  he 
liked  not  the  bold  favourite,  knew  him  for  a  keeper 
of  his  word.  He  stood  back  and  let  him  pass  within. 
D'Epernon  carefully  barred  the  door  behind  him,  and 
with  a  grand  salute  strode  masterfully  into  the  kitchen 
of  Dame  Granier,  which  seemed  to  shrink  in  size  at  his 
entrance. 

"Fairer  waters  than  those  we  are  now  crossirig  be  to  us 
and  to  France!"  said  the  Duke,  who  loved  a  sound- 
ing phrase.  There  was  a  silence  in  the  kitchen,  all 
wondering  what  this  sudden  interruption  might  mean. 
"You  are  all  strangely  speechless,"  continued  the 
Duke. 

"We  would  be  glad  to  know  what  is  your  Grace's  will 


142  The  Wlilte  Plume 

with  us,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux ;  "after  that  we  will  speak 
as  plain  as  men  may !" 

"You  are,  I  take  it,  for  the  King  of  France  so  long 
as  he  may  live,  and  for  the  Bearnais  afterwards?" 

"We  are  of  different  schools  and  habits  of  thought," 
said  Doctor  Anatole,  with  a  certain  professional  senten- 
tiousness,  "but  you  may  take  it  that  on  these  points  we 
are  agreed  with  my  Lord  Duke  of  Epernon !" 

"We  are  all  against  the  League !"  said  Jean-aux-Choux 
brusquely. 

"I  stand  by  my  cousin  Henry,"  said  the  Abbe  John. 

"And  I  keep  an  open  hostelry  and  a  shut  mouth !"  added 
Anthony  Arpajon. 

As  for  Claire,  she  said  nothing,  but  only  moved  a  little 
further  into  the  shadow.  For  Dame  Granier  had  thrown 
a  handful  of  resinous  chips  on  the  fire,  which  blazed  up 
brightly,  at  which  D'Epernon  muttered  a  curse  and 
trampled  the  clear  light  into  dim  embers  with  the  heel 
of  his  cavalier's  boot. 

"To  be  seen  here  does  not  mean  much  to  most  of  you," 
he  said,  with  sudden  unexpected  fierceness,  "but  with  the 
city  full  of  spies  of  Guise,  it  would  be  death  and  de- 
struction to  me !  In  a  word  then — for  this  I  have  come. 
The  King  has  resolved  to  bear  no  longer  the  insolence 
of  Guise  and  his  brothers.  There  is  to  be  an  end.  It 
will  be  a  bitter  day  and  a  worse  night  in  Blois.  Women 
are  better  out  of  it.  I  have  taken  measures  to  keep 
safely  mine  own  wife — though  there  is  no  braver  lass 
in  France,  as  the  burghers  of  Angouleme  do  know — 
what  I  have  to  ask  is,  how  many  of  you  gentlemen  I 
can  count  upon?" 

"There  is  a  difference,"  said  the  Professor.  "I  am 
an  advocate  for  peace.  But  then  Duke  Guise  and  the 
Princes  of  Lorraine  will  not  feave  us  in  peace.  So, 


The  White  Plume  143 

against  my  judgment  and  conscience,  I  am  with  you  so 
far  as  fighting  goes." 

"And  I,"  said  the  Abbe  John  eagerly;  "but  I  will 
have  no  hand  in  the  assassination.  It  smells  of  Saint 
Bartholomew !" 

"It  is  going  to  smell  of  that,"  answered  D'Epernon 
coolly ;  "you  are  of  Crillon's  party,  my  friend — and 
truly  I  do  not  wonder.  There  are  butchers  enough  about 
the  King  to  do  his  killings  featly.  Of  what  use  else 
are  swaggerers  like  D'O,  Guast,  Ornano,  and  Lognac? 
For  me,  I  am  happily  supposed  to  be  in  my  govern- 
ment of  Angouleme.  I  am  banished,  disgraced,  shamed, 
all  to  pleasure  the  League.  But  just  the  same,  the  King 
sends  me  daily  proof  of  his  kindness,  under  his  own 
hand  and  seal.  So  I,  in  turn,  endeavour  to  serve  him  as 
best  I  may." 

"You  can  count  on  me,  Duke  d'Epernon,"  said  Jean- 
aux-Choux  suddenly,  "aye,  if  it  were  to  do  again  the 
deed  of  Ehud,  which  he  did  in  the  summer  parlour  by 
the  quarries  of  Gilgal,  that  day  when  the  sun  was  hot  in 
the  sky." 

"Good,"  said  D'Epernon,  "it  is  a  bargain.  To-morrow, 
then,  do  you  seek  out  Hamilton,  a  lieutenant  in  the  Scots 
Guards,  and  say  to  him,  'The  Man  in  the  Black  Coat  sent 
me  to  you' !" 

"When — at  what  hour?" 

"At  six — seven — as  soon  as  may  be.    What  care  I  ?" 

"Aye,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux,  "that  is  good  speaking. 
Is  it  not  written,  'What  thou  doest,  do  quickly'  ?" 

"It  is  indeed  so  written,"  said  the  Professor  of  Eloquence 
gravely,  "but  not  of  the  Duke  of  Guise." 

"Fear  not,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux,  taking  the  reference, 
"I  shall  meet  him  face  to  face.  There  shall  be  no  Judas 
kiss  betwixt  me  and  Henry  of  Guise." 


144  The  White  Plume 

"No,"  murmured  the  Professor,  "there  is  more  likely 
to  be  a  good  half-dozen  of  your  countrymen  of  the  Scot- 
tish Guard,  each  with  a  dagger  in  his  right  hand." 

As  it  happened,  there  was  a  round  dozen,  but  not  of  the 
Scottish  archers. 

D'Epernon — than  whom  no  one  could  be  more  cour- 
teous, in  a  large,  deft,  half -scornful  way — stooped  to 
kiss  Claire's  hand  under  the  spitting  anger  of  the  Abbe 
John's  eyes. 

"A  good  evening  and  a  better  daybreak,"  said  D'Eper- 
non. "I  would  escort  you  to  Angouleme,  my  pretty 
maiden,  to  bide  under  the  care  of  my  wife,  were  it  not 
that  you  might  be  worse  off  there.  The  last  time  my 
Lady  Duchess  went  for  a  walk,  our  good  Leaguers  of 
the  town  held  a  knife  to  her  throat  under  the  battle- 
ments for  half-a-day,  bidding  her  call  upon  me  to  surren- 
der the  castle  on  pain  of  instant  death.  What,  think 
you,  said  Margaret  of  Foix?  'Kill  me  if  you  like,'  says 
she,  'and  much  good  may  it  do  you  and  your  League. 
But  tell  Jean  Louis,  my  husband,  that  if  he  yields  one 
jot  to  such  rascals  as  you,  to  save  my  life  twenty  times 
over — I — will  never  kiss  him  again'  1" 

"I  should  like  to  know  your  wife,  my  lord,"  said  Claire ; 
"she  must  be  a  brave  woman." 

"I  know  another!"  D'Epernon  answered,  bowing  cour- 
teously. 

Then,  after  the  great  man  was  gone,  the  party  about 
Dame  Granier's  fire  sat  silent,  looking  uncertainly  at 
one  another  in  the  dull  red  glow,  which  gave  the  strange 
face  of  Jean-aux-Choux,  bordered  by  its  tussock  of 
orange-saffron  hair,  the  look  of  having  been  dipped  in 
blood. 

Then,  without  a  word,  the  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries 
took  down  his  wallet,  stuck  the  long  sheath  of  a  dagger 


The  White  Plume  145 

Under  his  black-and-white  baldrick,  and  strode  out  into 
the  night. 

His  vow  was  upon  him. 

"I  will  betake  me  to  my  chamber,"  said  the  Professor 
of  Eloquence,  "and  pray  to  be  forgiven  for  the  thought 
of  blood  which  leaped  up  in  my  heart  when  this  proud 
man  came  to  the  door." 

"And  I,"  said  Claire,  "because  I  am  very  sleepy." 

She  said  good-night  a  little  coldly  to  John  d'Albret. 
At  least,  so  he  thought,  and  was  indeed  ill-content  thereat. 

"I  am  not  permitted  to  fight  in  a  good  hard-stricken 
battle,"  he  murmured.  "I  cannot  bring  my  mind  to 
rank  assassination — for  this,  however  my  Lord  of  Eper- 
non  may  wrap  it  up,  means  no  less.  And  yonder  vixen 
of  a  girl  will  not  even  let  me  hold  her  coloured  threads 
when  she  broiders  a  petticoat !" 

But  without  a  doubt  or  a  qualm  Jean-aux-Choux  went 
to  find  Hamilton  of  the  Scots  Guard  and  to  perform  his 

vow. 

***** 

As  for  the  Duke,  he  spent  his  days  with  the  Queen- 
Mother,  and  his  nights  at  the  lodgings  of  Monsieur  de 
Noirmoutiers.  Catherine  de  Medici  was  ill  and  old,  but 
she  kept  all  her  charm  of  manner,  her  Italian  courtesy. 
Personally  she  liked  Guise,  and  he  had  a  soft  side  to  the 
wizened  old  woman  who  had  done  and  plotted  so  many 
things — among  others  the  night  of  Saint  Bartholomew. 
When  Guise  came  to  any  town  where  Catherine  was,  he 
always  rode  directly  to  her  quarters.  There  she  sar- 
monised  him  on  his  latest  sins,  representing  how  un- 
seemly these  were  in  the  avowed  champion  of  the 
Church. 

"But  they  make  the  people  love  me,"  he  would  cry, 
with  a  careless  laugh.  And  perhaps  also — who  knows  ? — 


146  The  White  Plume 

the  perverse  indurated  heart  of  the  ancient  Queen !  For 
the  Queen-Mother,  though  relentless  to  all  heretics  and 
rebels,  was  kindly  within  doors  and  tx>  those  she  loved 
— who  indeed  generally  repaid  her  with  the  blackest 
ingratitude. 

But  at  Blois  Guise  had  a  new  reason  for  frequenting 
his  old  ally.  Valentine  la  Nina  had  become  indispensable 
to  Catherine.  She  was,  it  seemed,  far  more  to  her  than 
her  own  daughter.  The  Queen-Mother  would  spend 
long  days  of  convalescence — as  often,  indeed,  as  she  was 
fairly  free  from  pain — in  devising  and  arranging  robes 
for  her  favourite. 

And  amid  the  flurry  Guise  came  and  went  with  the 
familiarity  of  a  house  friend.  His  scarred  face  shone 
with  pleasure  as  he  picked  a  way  to  his  old  ally's  bed- 
side. Arrived  there,  after  steering  his  course  through 
the  wilderness  of  silks  and  chiffons  which  cumbered  the 
chairs  and  made  even  sitting  down  a  matter  of  warlike 
strategy,  Guise  would  remain  and  watch  the  busy  maids 
bending  over  their  needlework,  and  especially  Valentine 
la  Nina  seated  at  the  other  side  of  the  great  state  bed, 
which  had  been  specially  brought  from  Paris  for  the 
Queen  to  die  upon.  There  was  a  quaint  delight  in  his 
eyes,  not  unmingled  with  amusement,  but  now  and  then 
a  flush  would  mount  to  his  face  and  the  great  scar  on 
his  cheek  would  glow  scarlet. 

Once  he  betrayed  himself. 

"What  a  queen — what  a  queen  she  would  have 
made !" 

But  the  sharp-witted  old  woman  on  the  bed,  catching 
the  murmured  words,  turned  them  off  with  Italian  quick- 
ness. 

"Too  late,  my  good  Henry,"  she  said,  reaching  out 
her  hand;  "you  were  born  quite  thirty  years  too  late. 


The  White  Plume  147 

Had  you  been  King  and  I  Queen — well,  the  world  would 
have  had  news !" 

She  thought  a  little  while,  and  then  added: 

"For  one  thing  all  men  would  have  known — how  stupid 
a  man  is  the  Fleming  who  calls  himself  King  of  Spain. 
We  should  have  avenged  Pavia,  you  and  I,  my  Balafre, 
and  Philip's  ransom  would  have  bought  the  children 
each  a  gown !" 

But  Valentine  la  Nina  knew  well  of  what  the  Duke 
of  Guise  had  been  thinking.  She  understood  his  words, 
but  she  gave  him  no  chance  of  private  speech.  Nor  did 
she  send  him  any  further  warning.  Once  at  Paris  she 
had  warned  him  fully,  and  he  had  chosen  to  disobey  her. 
It  was  at  his  peril.  And  now  in  Blois  itself  she  treated 
the  popular  idol  and  all-powerful  captain  with  a  chilling 
disdain  that  secretly  stung  him. 

Only  once  did  they  exchange  words.  It  was  on  the 
stairway,  as  Valentine  gathered  her  riding-skirt  in  her 
fingers  in  order  to  mount  to  the  Queen-Mother's  room. 
The  Duke  was  coming  down  slowly,  a  disappointed  look 
on  his  face,  but  he  brightened  at  sight  of  her,  and  taking 
her  gloved  hand  quickly,  he  put  it  to  his  lips : 

"Now  I  have  lived  to-day !"  he  said  gently. 

"If  you  do  not  get  hence,"  she  answered  him  with  bit- 
terness, "it  is  one  of  the  last  days  that  you  will !" 

"Then  I  would  spend  these  last  days  here  in  Blois,"  he 
said,  smiling  at  her. 

"You  would  do  better  for  the  Cause  you  pretend  to 
serve  if  you  took  my  grey  alezan  out  there  and  rode  him 
at  gallop  through  the  North  Gate.  I  give  him  to  you  if 
you  will!" 

"I  should  only  bring  him  back  by  the  South  Gate," 
he  said,  smiling.  "While  you  remain  here,  I  am  no  bet- 
ter than  a  poor  moth  fluttering  about  the  candle !" 


148  The  White  Plume 

"But  the  Cause?"  she  cried,  with  an  angry  clap  of 
her  hands. 

"That  for  the  Cause !"  said  Guise,  snapping  his  fingers 
lightly ;  "a  man  has  but  one  life  to  live,  and  few  privileges 
therein.  But  surely  he  may  be  allowed  to  lay  that  one 
at  a  fair  lady's  feet !" 

Without  answering,  Valentine  la  Nina  swept  up  the 
stairs  of  the  Queen's  lodging,  her  heart  within  her  like 
lead. 

"After  all,"  she  murmured,  as  she  shut  herself  in  her 
room,  "I  have  done  my  best.  I  have  warned  him  time 
and  again.  I  cannot  save  a  man  against  his  will.  Paugh !' 
(she  turned  hastily  from  the  window),  "there  he  is  again 
on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  pacing  the  street  as  if  it 
were  the  poop  of  an  admiral !" 

The  little  walled  garden  at  Madame  Granier's,  with 
its  trellised  vines,  the  wind-swept  wintry  shore  of  the 
Loire,  and  the  bleached  shell-pink  of  the  shingle,  all 
went  back  to  their  ancient  quiet.  The  whole  world  was 
in,  at,  and  about  the  Chateau.  Men,  women,  and  both 
sorts  of  angels  were  busy  around  the  Castle  of  Blois  in 
these  short  grey  days  of  midmost  winter. 

Now  and  then,  however,  would  come  a  heavenly  morn- 
ing when  Claire,  left  alone,  looked  out  upon  the 
clear,  clean,  zenith-blue  sweep  of  the  river,  and  on 
the  misty  opal  and  ultramarine  ash  of  the  distance, 
ridge  fading  behind  ridge  as  drowsy  thought  fades  into 
sleep. 

"It  is  a  Paradise  of  beauty,  but" — here  she  hesitated 
a  while — "there  is  no  Adam,  that  I  can  see !" 

In  spite  of  the  winter  day  she  opened  her  window  to 
the  slightly  sun-warmed  air. 

"I  declare  I  am  somewhat  in  Eve's  mood  to-day,"  she 
continued,  smiling  to  herself  as  she  laid  down  her  em- 


The  White  Plume  149 

broidery ;  "even  an  affable  serpent  would  be  better  than 
nothing." 

But  it  could  not  be.  For  all  the  powers  of  good  and 
evil — the  Old  Serpent  among  them — were  full  of  business 
in  the  Chateau  of  Blois  during  these  days  of  the  King's 
last  Parliament.  And  so,  while  Claire  read  her  Amyot's 
Plutarch  and  John  Knox's  Reformation,  the  single  stroke 
which  changed  all  history  hung  unseen  in  the  blue. 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE  most  familiar  servants  of  my  Lord  of  Guise  dared 
not  awake  their  master.  He  had  cast  himself  down 
on  the  great  bed  in  his  chamber  when  he  came  in  late, 
or  rather  early — no  man  cared  to  ask  which — from  the 
lodging  of  Monsieur  de  Noirmoutier.  Even  his  bravest 
gentlemen  feared  to  disturb  him,  though  the  King's 
messenger  had  come  twice  to  summon  him  to  a  council 
meeting  at  the  Chateau. 

"Early — very  early?  Well,  what  is  that  to  me?"  said 
the  herald.  "Bid  your  master  come  to  the  King !" 

"The  King!  Who  is  he?"  cried  insolently  the  young 
De  Bar.  "Brother  Henry  the  Monk  may  be  your  master 
— he  is  not  ours." 

"Hush !"  said  the  aged  Raincy,  Guise's  privileged 
major-domo  and  confidant,  the  only  man  from  whom  the 
Duke  took  advice ;  "it  were  wiser  to  send  a  message  that 
my  Lord  of  Guise  is  ill,  but  that  he  will  be  informed  of 
the  King's  command  and  will  be  at  the  Chateau  as  soon 
as  possible." 

Guise  finally  awoke  at  eight,  and  looking  out,  shivered 
a  little  at  the  sight  of  as  dismal  a  dawning  as  ever  broke 
over  green  Touraine.  It  had  been  raining  all  night,  and, 
indeed,  when  the  Duke  had  come  in  from  his  supper- 
party  he  had  thrown  himself  down  with  but  little  cere- 
mony of  undressing.  This  carelessness  and  his  damp 
clothes  had  told  upon  him. 

"A  villain  rheum,'*  he  cried,  as  he  opened  his  eyes,  to 


The   White  Plume  151 

listen  ill-humouredly  enough  to  Raincy's  grave  communi- 
cation of  the  King's  demand.  "And  what  do  you  tell 
me?  A  villain  day?  Draw  aside  the  curtains  that  I 
may  see  the  better.  What — snow?  It  was  rain  when 
I  came  in." 

He  sneezed  twice,  on  which  Raincy  wished  him  a  long 
life. 

"  'Tis  more  than  the  King  of  all  the  Penitent  Monks 
wishes  me,"  said  the  Duke,  shovelling  notes  and  letters 
of  all  shapes  and  sizes  out  of  his  pockets.  Some  had 
been  crumpled  in  the  palm  of  the  hand  scornfully,  some 
refolded  meditatively,  some  twisted  between  the  fingers 
into  nervous  spills,  but  by  far  the  greater  had  never  been 
opened  at  all. 

"See  what  they  say,  Raincy,"  cried  the  Duke.  "I 
can  dress  myself — one  does  not  need  to  go  brave  only 
to  see  the  King  of  France  playing  monkey  tricks  in  a 
turban  and  woman's  dressing-gown,  scented  of  musk 
and  flounced  in  the  fashion!  Pah!  But,  Raincy, 
what  a  cold  I  have  taken!  'Tis  well  enough  for  a 
man  when  he  is  young  to  go  out  supping  in  December, 
but  for  me,  at  eight-and-thirty — I  am  raucous  as  a 
gallows'  crow!  Give  me  my  cloak,  Raincy,  and  order 
my  horse !" 

"But,  Your  Grace,"  gasped  the  alarmed  Raincy,  "you 
have  had  no  breakfast !  Your  Grace  would  not  go  thus 
to  the  council — you  who  are  more  powerful  than  the  King 
— nay,  whom  all  France,  save  a  few  heretics  and  bluster- 
ers, wish  to  be  king  indeed !" 

"Aye — aye — perhaps !"  said  Guise,  not  ill-pleased,  "that 
may  be  true.  But  the  Bearnais  does  not  pay  these 
rogues  and  blusterers  of  his.  That  is  his  strength.  See 
what  an  army  he  has,  and  never  a  sou  do  they  see  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end!  As  for  me" — here  he  took  a 


152  The  White  Plume 

paper  out  of  his  pocket-book  and  made  a  rapid 
calculation — "to  entertain  a  war  in  France,  it  were 
necessary  to  spend  seven  hundred  thousand  livres  a 
month.  For  our  Leaguers  cry  'vivas'  with  their  mouths, 
but  they  will  not  lift  a  pike  unless  we  pay  them  well 
for  it !" 

He  folded  the  paper  carefully,  as  if  for  future 
reference. 

"What  money  have  I,  Raincy?"  he  said,  flapping  his 
empty  purse  on  the  table ;  "not  much,  I  fear.  It  is  time 
I  was  leaving  Blois,  Raincy,  if  I  wish  to  go  with  decent 
credit !" 

Now  was  the  valet's  chance,  which  he  had  been  waiting 
for. 

"Ay,  it  is  indeed  time — and  high  time,"  said  Raincy, 
"if  these  letters  speak  true.  Let  us  mount  and  ride  to 
Soissons — only  Your  Grace  and  I,  if  so  it  please  you. 
But  in  an  hour  it  may  be  too  late." 

The  Duke  of  Guise  laughed,  and  clapped  his  major- 
domo  on  the  shoulder.  "Do  not  you  also  become  a 
croaker,"  he  cried;  "leave  me  at  least  Raincy  who  sees 
that  the  League  holds  the  King  in  a  cleft  stick.  My 
good  man,  he  dare  not — this  Henry  of  the  Fox's  Heart. 
I  have  the  clergy,  the  Church,  the  people,  most  of  the 
lords.  The  Parliament  itself  is  filled  with  our  people. 
Blois,  all  except  the  Chateau,  is  crammed  with  our  men, 
as  a  bladder  is  with  lard !" 

"Ah,  except  the  Chateau,"  groaned  Raincy ;  "but  that 
is  the  point.  You  are  going  to  the  Chateau,  and  the 
Fox  is  cunning — he  has  teeth  as  well  as  another !" 

"But  he  dares  not  trap  the  lion,  Raincy,"  laughed 
Guise. 

"Why,  you  are  as  bad  as  Madame  de  Noirmoutier,  who 
made  me  promise  to  ride  off  to-day  like  a  whipped  cur — 


The  White  Plume  153 

I,  the  Guise.  There,  no  more,  Raincy !  I  tell  you  I  will 
dethrone  the  King.  Then  I  will  beat  the  Bearnais  and 
take  him  about  the  land  as  a  show  in  a  cage,  for  he  will 
be  the  only  Huguenot  left  in  all  the  realm  of  France. 
Then  you,  Raincy,  shall  be  my  grand  almoner.  Be  my 
little  one  now !  Quick,  give  me  twelve  golden  crowns — 
that  my  purse,  when  I  go  among  my  foes,  be  not  like  that 
of  my  cousin  of  Navarre !" 

As  the  major-domo  went  to  seek  the  gold,  Guise 
stretched  his  feet  out  to  the  blaze  and,  with  a  smile  on 
his  face,  hummed  the  chorus  of  the  Leaguers'  marching- 
song. 

"I  would  I  were  a  little  less  balafre  on  such  a  cold 
morning,"  grumbled  the  Duke;  "scars  honourable  are 
all  very  well,  but — give  me  a  handkerchief,  Raincy. 
That  arquebusier  at  Chateau  Thierry  fetched  me  a 
villain  thwack  on  the  cheek-bone,  and  on  cold  days  one 
eye  still  weeps  in  sympathy  with  my  misfortunes !" 

"Ah,  my  good  lord,"  said  Raincy,  "pray  that  before 
sundown  this  day  many  an  eye  in  France  may  not  have 
cause  to  weep !" 

"Silence  there,  old  croaker,"  cried  the  Duke ;  "my  sword 
— my  cloak !  What,  have  you  so  forgot  your  business 
in  prating  of  France  that  you  will  not  even  do 
your  office  ?  Carry  these  things  downstairs !  A  vil- 
lain's day ! — a  dog's  day !  The  cold  the  wolf-packs 
bring  when  they  come  down  to  harry  the  villages ! 
Hold  the  stirrup,  Raincy!  Steady,  lass!  Wey  there! 
Thou  lovest  not  standing  in  the  rain,  eh?  Wish 
me  luck,  Raincy.  I  carry  the  hope  of  France,  you 
know — King  Henry  of  Guise,  and  the  throats  of  the 
Protestant  dogs  all  cut — sleep  on  that  sentiment,  good 
Raincy." 

And  Raincy  watched  the  Duke  ride  away  towards  the 


154  I  he   White  Plume 

Castle  of  Blois.     The  last  echo  of  his  master's  voice 
came  back  to  him  on  the  gusty  December  wind : 

"  The  Guises  are  good  men,  good  men, 
The  Cardinal,  and  Henry,  and  Mayenne,  Mayenne! 
For  we'll  fight  till  all  be  grey — 
The  Valois  at  our  feet  to-day — " 

Raincy  stood  awhile  motionless,  the  tears  running 
down  his  face.  He  was  about  to  shut  the  door,  when, 
just  where  the  Duke  had  sprung  upon  his  horse,  he 
caught  the  glimpse  of  something  white  on  the  black  drip 
of  the  eaves.  He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  the 
handkerchief  his  master  had  bidden  him  fetch.  It  was 
adorned  with  the  arms  of  Guise,  the  Lilies  of  France 
being  in  the  centre.  But  now  the  fleurs-de-lys  were  red 
lilies.  The  blood  of  the  Guise  had  stained  them. 

And  Raincy  stood  long,  long  there  in  the  open  street, 
the  sleety  snow  falling  upon  his  grey  head,  the  kerchief 
in  his  hand,  marvelling  at  the  portent. 


CHAPTER     XXI 


ABOVE,  in  the  Chateau  of  Blois,  there  were  two  men  wait- 
ing the  coming  of  Henry,  Duke  of  Guise.  One  was 
another  Henry,  he  of  Valois,  King  of  France.  He  had 
many  things  to  avenge — his  own  folly  and  imprudence 
most  of  all,  though,  indeed,  these  never  troubled  him. 
Only  the  matters  of  Coligny,  and  the  sombre  shades 
of  the  dead  upon  St.  Bartholomew's  Eve,  haunted  his 
repose. 

At  the  private  gathering  of  the  conspirators,  the  King 
had  found  many  who  were  willing  to  sympathise  with 
him  in  his  woes,  but  few  who  would  drive  the  steel. 

"The  Parliament  are  to  make  Constable  of  France  the 
man  who  is  intent  on  pulling  down  my  throne.  I  shudder 
with  horror"  (he  whined)  "to  think  that  the  nobles  of 
France  support  the  Guises  in  this — I  speak  not  of  fanatic 
bishops  and  loud-mouthed  priests,  who  cry  against  me 
from  every  pulpit  because  I  will  not  have  more  Colignys 
gibbering  at  my  bed- foot,  nor  yet  give  them  leave  to  burn 
Frenchmen  by  the  score,  as  Philip  does  his  Spaniards 
t'other  side  the  mountains !" 

The  Marshal  d'Aumont,  D'O,  and  Lognac,  the  Captain 
of  the  Forty-Five  Guardsmen,  bowed  respectful  assent. 

"What  is  the  state  of  France,  friends,"  the  King  cried, 
in  a  frenzy  of  rage,  "I  bid  you  tell  me,  when  an  alien 
disputes  the  throne  of  Francis  First  with  the  legiti- 
mate heir  of  Saint  Louis  ?  And  what  of  Paris,  my  capital 
city,  wherein  I  have  lived  like  a  bourgeois  these  many 


156  The   White  Plume 

years,  which  receives  him  with  shouts  and  caressings,  but 
chases  me  without  like  a  dog  ? — aye,  like  a  dog !" 

The  comparison  seemed  to  strike  him. 

"  'Without  are  dogs,'  I  have  heard  the  priests  say. 
Well,  as  to  heaven,  it  may  be  so.  But  as  to  Paris,  be 
sure  that  if  the  dogs  are  without — within  are  wolves  and 
serpents  and  all  manner  of  unclean  beasts !  I  would 
rather  trust  the  Bearnais  than  any  of  them !" 

There  was  some  dismay  at  this.  It  stood  out  on  the 
faces  of  the  leaders  at  the  council  board.  If  His  Majesty 
went  to  the  King  of  Navarre,  they  knew  well  that  their 
day  would  be  over.  However,  they  swore  to  do  every- 
thing that  the  King  required,  but  of  them  all,  only 
Lognac  meant  to  keep  his  word.  He  was  a  stout  fighter. 
The  killing  of  Guise  was  all  in  the  way  of  business ;  and 
if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  the  Bearnais  would  not 
refuse  a  company  to  one  who,  in  his  time,  had  been  Cap- 
tain of  the  Forty-Five. 

Henry  of  Valois  had  been  up  early  that  morning,  called 
from  his  slumbers  to  bait  the  trap  with  his  most  secret 
cunning.  He  did  not  mean  to  take  any  part  in  the  deed 
himself.  For  the  soldier  who  had  fought  so  well  against 
Coligny  now  dodged  out  and  in,  like  a  rat  behind  the 
arras. 

The  Scots  Guards  were  posted  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
Chateau,  to  shut  the  entrances  as  soon  as  the  Duke  of 
Guise  should  have  passed  within.  In  the  great  hall  were 
the  Lords  of  the  Council — the  Cardinal  of  Guise,  the 
Archbishop  of  Lyons,  that  clarion  of  the  League,  the 
Cardinal  Vendome,  the  Marshal  d'Aumont,  D'O,  the  royal 
favourite,  together  with  the  usual  clerks  and  secretaries. 

But  within,  in  the  ancient  chamber  of  audience,  next  to 
the  cabinet  of  the  King  himself,  stood  in  waiting  certain 
Gascons,  ready  with  their  daggers  only  half  dissembled 


The  White  Plume  157 

under  their  cloaks.  They  were  men  of  no  determined 
courage,  and  the  King  well  knew  that  they  might  fail 
him  at  the  last  moment.  So,  by  the  advice  of  Hamilton 
and  Larchant  of  the  Scots  Guard,  he  had  placed  nearest 
to  the  door  one  who  would  make  no  mistake — him  whom 
the  Man  in  the  Black  Cloak  had  sent,  even  Jean-aux- 
Choux,  the  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries. 

But  on  that  mask  of  a  face  there  was  now  no  sign  of 
folly.  Stern,  grey,  immovable  was  now  the  counte- 
nance of  him  who,  by  mirth,  had  set  many  courts  in  a 
roar.  He  could  hear,  as  he  had  heard  it  on  the  night 
of  the  Bartholomew,  the  voice  of  the  Duke  of  Guise 
crying,  "Haste  ye — is  the  work  not  done  yet?" 

And  now  another  "work"  was  to  be  done.  The  feet 
that  had  spurned  Coligny  were  even  now  upon  the  stairs. 
He  thanked  God.  Now  he  would  perform  his  vow  upon 
the  man  who  had  made  him  go  through  life  hideous  and 
a  laughing-stock. 

For  in  those  days  the  New  Law  concerning  the  forgive- 
ness of  enemies  was  a  dead  letter.  If  you  wished  to  live, 
you  had  better  not  forgive  your  enemy — till  after  you 
had  slain  him.  And  the  dread  "Remember  the  Bartholo- 
mew," printed  on  all  Huguenot  hearts,  was  murmured  be- 
hind the  clenched  teeth  of  Jean-aux-Choux.  The  Hugue- 
nots would  be  avenged.  Innocent  blood  would  no  more  cry 
unheeded  from  the  ground.  The  hated  League  would  fall 

with  its  chief.     With  Guise  would  perish  the  Guisards. 

#  *  #  #  * 

The  princes  of  Lorraine  had  beheld  their  power  grow 
through  four  reigns.  It  culminated  on  the  Day  of  the 
Barricades,  when  a  king  of  France  appealed  to  a  subject 
to  deliver  him  from  the  anger  of  the  citizens  of  his  own 
capital.  So,  secure  in  his  power,  Guise  scorned  all 
thought  of  harm  to  himself. 


158  The  White  Plume 

"They  dare  not,"  he  repeated  over  and  over,  both  to 
himself  and  to  others ;  "the  King — his  kingdom — hangs 
upon  a  single  hair,  and  that  hair  is  my  life !" 

So  he  walked  into  the  armed  and  defended  fortress  of 
his  mortal  enemy  as  freely  as  into  his  own  house.  Like 
perfect  love,  perfect  contempt  casteth  out  fear. 

Yet  when  once  he  had  saluted  the  company  in  the  hall 
of  audience,  Guise  sat  him  down  by  the  fire  and  com- 
plained of  being  cold.  He  had,  he  said,  lain  down  in  his 
damp  clothes,  and  had  risen  up  hastily  to  obey  the  King's 
message. 

"Soon  you  will  be  hot  enough  upon  the  branders  of 
Tophet !"  muttered  D'O,  the  royal  favourite,  to  Revol, 
the  King's  secretary,  who  went  and  came  between  the 
inner  cabinet  and  the  chamber  where  the  council  were 
sitting  about  a  great  table. 

The  superintendent  of  the  finances,  one  Petremol,  was 
reading  a  report.  The  Archbishop  of  Lyons  bent  over  to 
the  Duke  of  Guise,  where  he  sat  warming  him  by  the  fire. 

"Where  goes  our  royal  Penitent  so  early — I  mistrust 
his  zeal?  And  specially,"  he  added,  as  a  furious  burst 
of  sleet  battered  like  driven  sea-spray  on  the  leaded  panes 
of  the  council  room,  "on  such  a  morning ;  it  were  shame 
to  turn  out  a  dog." 

"Oh,  the  dog  goes  of  his  own  will — into  retreat,  as 
usual!"  said  the  Duke  carelessly;  "in  half-an-hour  we 
shall  see  him  set  off  with  a  dozen  silken  scourges  and 
the  softest  down  pillows  in  the  castle.  Our  reverend 
Henry  is  of  the  excellent  order  of  Saint  Commode !" 

Presently,  leaving  the  fireside,  the  Duke  returned  to 
the  table  where  the  others  sat.  It  was  observed  that  he 
was  still  pale.  But  the  qualm  was  physical  only ;  no 
shade  of  fear  mixed  with  it.  He  asked  for  a  handker- 
chief from  any  of  his  people  who  might  have  followed 


The  White  Plume  159 

him.  As  the  greatest  care  had  been  taken  to  exclude 
these,  he  was  supplied  with  one  from  the  King's  own 
wardrobe  by  St.  Prix,  the  King's  valet  de  chambre.  Then 
he  asked  for  comfits  to  stop  his  cold,  but  all  that  could 
be  found  within  the  castle  was  only  a  paper  of  prunes 
of  Brignolles,  with  which  Guise  had  to  content  himself, 
instead  of  the  Smyrna  raisins  and  rose  conserves  of 
Savoy  which  he  asked  for. 

He  chatted  indifferently  with  one  and.  another  while 
the  routine  of  the  council  unrolled  itself  monotonously. 

"I  think  brother  Henry  might  have  let  us  sleep  in  our 
beds,  if  this  be  all,"  he  said.  "What  is  the  use  of  bring- 
ing us  here  at  this  hour,  to  pronounce  on  the  fate  of 
rascals  who  have  done  no  worse  than  hold  a  few  Hugue- 
nots to  ransom?  Wait  a  while,  and  we  will  give  the 
Huguenots  something  that  will  put  ransoming  them  out 
of  the  question !" 

The  Cardinal  smiled  at  his  brother  shrewdly. 

"Aye,"  he  murmured,  "but  we  will  have  the  ransoms 
also.  For,  you  know,  the  earth  belongeth  to  the  Lord, 
and  He  has  given  it  to  the  chosen  of  His  Church." 

A  hand  touched  the  Duke's  shoulder ;  a  voice  mur- 
mured in  his  ear — a  soft  voice — a  voice  that  trembled. 
It  was  that  of  Revol,  the  King's  secretary,  whom  at  first 
De  Nambre,  one  of  the  Forty-Five  on  guard  at  the  door, 
would  not  permit  to  pass.  Whereupon  the  King  popped 
his  head  out  of  the  closet  to  give  the  necessary  order, 
and  seeing  the  young  man  pale,  he  called  out,  "Revol, 
what's  the  matter  with  you?  Revol,  you  are  as  white  as 
paper,  man!  Rub  your  cheeks,  Revol.  Else  you  will 
spoil  all !" 

Henry  III.  always  liked  handsome  young  men  about 
him,  and  certainly  the  messenger  of  death  never  came  in 
a  prettier  form  to  any  than  when  young  Revol  tapped 


160  The  White  Pfume 

the  Duke  of  Guise  on  the  shoulder  as  he  sat  by  the 
council  board. 

The  chief  of  the  League  rose  and,  courteous  to  the 
last,  he  bowed  graciously  to  the  Cardinal  Vendome,  to 
whom  he  had  not  yet  had  the  opportunity  of  speaking 
that  day.  He  threw  his  cloak  carefully  over  one  arm,  and 
in  the  other  hand  he  took  his  silver  comfit-box  (for  he  ever 
loved  sweet  things)  containing  the  prunes  of  Brignolles. 
He  entered  into  the  little  narrow  passage.  De  Nambre 
shut  the  door  behind  him.  The  tiger  was  in  the  fox's  trap. 

Vaguely  Guise  saw  stern  faces  about  him,  but  as  was 
usual  with  him,  he  paid  no  particular  heed,  only  saluting 
them  as  he  had  done  the  shouting  spice  merchants'  'pren- 
tices and  general  varletage  of  Paris,  which  followed 
everywhere  on  his  heels. 

The  eight  Gascons  held  back,  though  their  hands  were 
on  their  daggers.  After  all,  the  tiger  was  a  tiger,  and 
they  were  but  hirelings.  The  curtain  which  hid  the  King's 
closet  shook  as  in  a  gale  of  wind.  But  suddenly  the  ter- 
rible mask  of  Jean-aux-Choux  surged  up,  so  changed 
that  the  victim  did  not  recognise  the  man  who  had  often 
made  sport  before  him. 

"For  Coligny — one !"  cried  the  tragic  fool. 

And  at  that  dread  word  the  other  traitor  behind  the 
arras  might  well  have  trembled  also.  Then  Jean  struck 
his  first  blow. 

"Saint  Bartholomew!"  cried  Jean-aux-Choux,  and 
struck  the  second  time. 

The  Duke  fell  on  his  knees.  The  eight  Gascons  pre- 
cipitated themselves  upon  the  man  who  had  been  deemed, 
and  who  had  deemed  himself,  the  most  invincible  of  the 
sons  of  men. 

So  strong  was  he  that,  even  in  death,  he  dragged  them 
all  after  him,  like  hounds  tearing  at  the  flanks  of  a 


"HAVE  YOU  FINISHED  THE  WORK? 
IS  HE  DEAD?" 


The  White  Flume  161 

dying  tiger,  till,  with  a  cry  of  "Oh,  my  friends — oh, 

what  treachery !  My  sins "  the  breath  of  life  went 

from  him.  And  he  fell  prone,  still  clutching  in  his  agony 
the  foot  of  the  King's  bed. 

Then  the  turbaned,  weasel  face,  pale  and  ghastly,  jerked 
out  of  the  royal  closet,  and  the  quavering  voice  of  the 
King  asked  Guise's  own  question  of  sixteen  years  before 
— "Have  you  finished  the  work?  Is  he  dead?" 

Being  assured  that  his  enemy  was  indeed  dead,  Henry 
at  last  came  out,  standing  over  the  body  of  the  great 
Leaguer,  holding  back  the  skirts  of  his  dressing-gown 
with  his  hand. 

"Ah,  but  he  is  big!"  he  said,  and  spurned  him  with 
his  foot.  Then  he  put  his  hands  on  his  brow,  as  if  for 
a  moment  to  hide  the  sight,  or  perhaps  to  commune  with 
himself.  Suddenly  he  thrust  out  an  arm  and  called  the 
man-slayers  about  him. 

"Ye  are  my  hands  and  arms,"  he  said ;  "I  shall  not  for- 
get that  you  have  done  this  for  my  sake." 

"Not  I  !"said  Jean-aux-Choux  promptly.  "I  have  done 
it  for  the  sake  of  Coligny,  whom  he  murdered  even  so. 
His  blood — my  master's  blood — has  called  a  long  while 
from  the  ground.  And  so" — looking  straight  at  the 
King — "perish  all  those  who  put  their  hands  to  the 
slaughter  of  the  Bartholomew  night." 

Then  King  Henry  of  Valois  abased  his  eyes,  and  men 
could  hear  his  teeth  clatter  in  his  head.  For,  indeed,  he 
and  Catherine,  his  mother — the  same  who  now  lay  a-dying 
in  the  chamber  below — had  guided,  with  foxy  cunning 
and  Italianate  guile,  that  deadly  conjuration. 

He  was,  however,  too  much  elated  to  be  long  subdued. 

"At  any  rate,"  he  said,  "Guise  is  dead.  I  am  avenged  up- 
on mine  enemy.  Guise  is  dead !  But  some  others  yet  live."1 


BERAK    THE    LIGHTNING    AND  TOAH 
HIS  DOG 

THE  blue  midland  sea,  the  clear  blue  of  heaven  just  turn- 
ing to  opal,  and  the  glint  of  mother-of-pearl  coming  up 
with  the  gloaming !  A  beach,  not  flattened  out  and  ribbed 
by  the  passage  of  daily  tides,  but  with  the  sand  and 
pebbles  built  steeply  up  by  the  lashing  waves  and  the 
furious  wind  Euroclydon. 

On  different  planes,  far  out  at  sea,  were  the  sails  of 
fishing-boats,  set  this  way  and  that,  for  all  the  world  like 
butterflies  in  the  act  of  alighting.  It  was  early  spring — 
the  spring  of  Roussillon  where  it  is  never  winter.  Al- 
ready the  purple  flowers  of  the  wild  Proven9al  mustard 
stood  out  from  the  white  and  yellow  rocks,  on  which  was 
perched  a  little  town,  flat-roofed  and  Moorish.  Their 
leaves,  grey-green  like  her  own  northern  seas,  of  which 
she  had  all  but  lost  memory,  drew  Claire's  attention.  She 
bit  absent-mindedly,  and  wafi  immediately  informed  as 
to  the  species  of  the  plant,  without  any  previous  knowl- 
edge of  botany. 

She  kicked  a  strand  of  the  long  binding  sea-grass,  and 
then,  after  looking  a  moment  resentfully  at  the  wild 
mustard,  she  threw  the  plant  pettishly  away.  Our  once 
sedate  Claire  had  begun  to  allow  herself  these  ebullitions 
with  the  Professor.  They  annoyed  the  Abbe  John  so 
much — and  it  was  practice.  Also,  they  made  the  Pro- 
fessor spoil  her.  He  had  never  watched  from  so  near 
the  sweet,  semi-conscious  coquetry  of  a  pretty  maid. 


The  White  Plume  163 

So  now  he  studied  Claire  like  a  newly  found  frag- 
ment of  Demosthenes,  of  which  the  Greek  text  has 
become  a  little  fragmentary  and  wilful  during  the 
centuries. 

"This  will  serve  you  better,  if  you  must  take  to  eat- 
ing grass  like  an  ox,"  said  the  Professor  of  Eloquence, 
reaching  out  his  hand  and  plucking  a  sprig  of  sweet 
alison,  which  grew  everywhere  about. 

Claire  stretched  out  hers  also  and  took  the  honey- 
scented  plant,  on  which  the  tiny  white  flowers  and  the 
shining  fruit  were  to  be  found  together. 

"Buzz-uzz-uzz !"  said  half-a-dozen  indignant  bees,  fol- 
lowing the  sprig.  For  at  that  dead  season  of  the  year, 
sweet  alison  was  almost  their  only  joy. 

"Ugh!"  exclaimed  Claire,  letting  it  go.  She  loved 
none  of  the  sting-accoutred  tribe — unless  it  were  the  big, 
heavy,  lurching  humble-bees,  which  entered  a  room  with 
such  blundering  pomp  that  you  had  always  time  to  get 
out  before  they  made  up  their  mind  about  you. 

The  Professor  watched  her  with  some  pride.  For  in 
the  quiet  of  Roussillon  Claire  had  quickly  recovered  her 
peace  of  mind,  and  with  it  the  light  in  the  eye  and  the 
rose-flush  on  the  cheek. 

But  quite  suddenly  she  put  her  hands  to  her  face  and 
began  to  sob. 

If  it  had  been  the  Abbe  John,  he  might  have  divined 
the  reason,  but  the  Professor  was  not  a  man  advised  upon 
such  matters. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  stupidly  enough ;  "are  you  ill?" 

"Oh,  no — no !"  sobbed  Claire ;  "it  is  so  good  to  be  here. 
It  is  so  peaceful.  You  are  so  good  to  me — too  good — 
your  mother — your  brothers — what  have  I  done  to  de- 
serve it  ?" 

"Very  likely  nothing,"  said  the  Professor,  meaning  to 


164  The  White  Plume 

be  consoling ;  "I  have  always  noticed  that  those  who  de- 
serve least  are  commonly  best  served !" 

"That  is  not  at  all  a  nice  thing  to  say,"  cried  Claire; 
"they  did  not  teach  you  polite  speeches  at  your  school — 
or  else  you  have  forgotten  them  at  your  dull  old  Sor- 
bonne.  Do  you  call  that  eloquence?" 

"I  only  profess  eloquence,"  said  Doctor  Anatole,  with 
due  meekness ;  "it  is  not  required  by  any  statute  that 
I  should  also  practise  it !" 

"Well,"  said  Claire,  "I  can  do  without  your  sweet 
speeches.  I  cannot  expect  a  Sorbonnist  to  have  the 
sugared  comfits  of  a  king's  mignon !" 

"Who  speaks  so  loud  of  sugared  comfits?"  said  a  voice 
from  the  other  side  of  the  weather-stained  rock,  beneath 
which  the  Professor  and  Claire  Agnew  were  sitting,  look- 
ing out  over  the  sea. 

A  tall  shepherd  appeared,  wrapped  in  the  cloak  of  the 
true  Pyrenean  herdsman,  brown  ochre  striped  with  red, 
and  fringed  with  the  blue  woollen  tassels  which  here  took 
the  place  of  the  silver  bells  of  Beam.  A  tiny  shiver, 
not  of  distaste,  but  caused  by  some  feeling  of  faint,  in- 
stinctive aversion,  ran  through  Claire. 

Jean-aux-Choux  did  not  notice.  His  eyes  were  far  out 
on  the  sea,  where,  as  in  a  vision,  he  seemed  to  see  strange 
things.  His  countenance,  once  twisted  and  comical,  now 
appeared  somehow  ennobled.  A  stern  glory,  as  of  an 
angry  ocean  seen  in  the  twilight,  gloating  over  the  de- 
struction it  has  wrought  during  the  day,  illumined  his 
face.  His  bent  back  seemed  somehow  straighter.  And, 
though  he  still  halted  in  his  gait,  he  could  take  the  hills 
in  his  stride  with  any  man.  And  none  could  better  "wear 
the  sheep"  or  call  an  erring  ewe  to  heel  than  Jean-aux- 
Choux.  For  in  these  semi-eastern  lands  the  sheep  still 
follow  the  shepherd  and  are  known  of  him. 


The  White  Plume  165 

"Who  speaks  of  sugared  comfits  ?"  demanded  Jean-aux- 
Choux  for  the  second  time. 

"I  did,"  said  Claire,  a  little  tremulously.  "I  only  wished 
I  had  some,  Jean,  to  while  away  the  time.  For  this  law- 
learned  Professor  will  say  nothing  but  rude  things  to 
me!" 

Jean  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  to  make  sure  that 
the  girl  was  jesting.  His  brow  cleared.  Then  again  a 
gleam  of  fierce  joy  passed  momently  over  his  face. 

"H e  had  comfits  in  his  hand  in  a  silver  box,"  he  said ; 
"jeweller's  work  of  a  cunning  artificer.  And  he  entered 
among  us  like  the  Lord  of  All.  But  it  was  given  to  me — 
to  me,  Jean-aux-Choux,  to  bring  low  the  haughty  head. 
'Guise,  the  good  Guise!'  Ha!  ha!  But  I  sent  him  to 
Hattil,  the  place  of  an  howling  for  sin — he  had  thought 
to  walk  in  Ahara,  the  sweet  savouring  meadows !" 

"I  hated  Guise  and  all  his  works,"  said  the  Professor, 
looking  at  the  ex-fool  boldly ;  "yet  I  will  never  call  his 
death  aught  but  a  murder  most  foul." 

"It  may  be — it  may  be,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux  indif- 
ferently ;  "I  did  my  Lord's  work  for  an  unworthy  master. 
I  would  as  soon  have  set  the  steel  to  the  throat  of  Henry 
of  Valois  himself.  He  and  that  mother  of  his,  now  also 
gone  to  the  Place  of  Howling  to  hob-nob  with  her 
friend  of  Guise — they  planned  the  killing.  I  did  it.  I 
give  thanks.  Michaiah — who  is  like  the  Lord?  Jedaiah 
— the  hand  of  the  Lord  hath  wrought  it.  Jehoash-Berak 
— the  fire  of  the  Lord  falls  in  the  thunderbolt !  Amen !" 

The  Professor  started  to  his  feet. 

"What  is  that  you  say?  The  Queen-Mother  dead? 
And  you ?" 

He  looked  at  the  long  dagger  Jean-aux-Choux  carried 
at  his  side,  which,  every  time  he  shifted  his  cloak,  drew 
the  unwilling  gaze  of  Claire  Agnew  like  a  fascination. 


166  The  White  Plume 

"The  Mother  of  Witchcrafts  is  indeed  dead,"  said  Jean- 
aux-Choux.  "But  that  the  world  owes  not  to  me.  The 
hand  of  God,  and  not  mine,  sent  her  to  her  own  place. 
Yet  I  saw  in  a  vision  the  Woman  drunken  with  the  blood 
of  saints  and  with  the  blood  of  the  martyrs  of  Jesus." 

Then  he,  who  had  once  been  called  the  King's  fool,  be- 
came, as  it  were,  transported.  His  eyes,  directed  at  some- 
thing unseen  across  the  blue  and  sleeping  sea,  were  ter- 
rible to  behold.  Faint  greyish  flecks  of  foam  appeared 
on  his  lips.  He  cast  his  cloak  on  the  ground  and  trod 
upon  it,  crying,  "Even  thus  is  it  to-day  with  Great 
Babylon,  the  mystery,  the  mother  of  the  abominations 
of  the  earth." 

After  a  moment's  pause  he  took  up  his  prophecy. 

"There  was  One  who  came  and  bade  me  listen,  and  I 
gave  him  no  heed,  for  he  blessed  when  I  would  have 
cursed ;  he  cried  'Preserve'  when  I  cried  'Cut  off ;  he 
cried  'Plant'  when  I  would  have  burned  up,  root  and 
branch.  But  when  I  heard  that  Catherine  of  the  Medici 
was  indeed  dead,  I  shouted  for  joy;  I  said,  'She  was 
arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet,  and  gilded  with  gold  and 
precious  stones  and  pearls !  I  saw  her  glory.  But  now 
Babylon  the  great  is  fallen — is  fallen.  And  they  that 
worshipped  her  throw  dust  on  their  heads — all  they  that 
have  thriven  on  the  abundance  of  her  pleasures.  For 
in  one  hour  her  judgment  is  come!'  * 

Then,  all  in  a  moment,  he  came  down  from  the  height 
of  his  vision.  The  light  of  satisfied  vengeance  faded 
from  his  face. 

"But  I  forgot — I  must  go  to  the  herd.  It  is  my  duty 
— till  the  God,  whose  arm  of  flesh  I  am,  finds  fitter  work 
for  me  to  do.  Then  will  I  do  it.  I  care  not  whether  the 
reward  be  heaven  or  hell,  so  that  the  work  be  done.  The 
cripple  and  the  fool  is  not  like  other  men.  He  is  not 


The  White  Plume  167 

holden  by  human  laws  or  codes  of  honour,  nor  by  the 
lust  of  land,  nor  wealth,  nor  power,  nor  the  love  of 
woman.  He  is  free — free — free  as  Berak,  the  lightning 
of  God  is  free — to  strike  where  he  wills — to  fall  where  he 
is  sent !" 

The  two  watched  him,  and  listened,  marvelling. 

And  the  Professor  muttered  to  himself,  "Before  I  lec- 
ture again,  I  must  read  that  Genevan  book  of  his.  Our 
poor  Vulgate  is  to  that  torrent  as  the  waters  of  Siloah 
that  flow  softly !" 

The  voice  of  Jean-aux-Choux  had  ceased.  That  is, 
his  lips  moved  without  words.  But  presently  he  turned 
to  Claire  and  said,  almost  in  his  old  tones,  "I  am  a  fool. 
I  fright  you,  that  are  but  a  child.  I  do  great  wrong. 
But  now  I  will  go  to  the  flock.  They  await  me.  I  am, 
you  say,  a  careless  shepherd  to  have  left  them  so  long. 
Not  so!  I  have  a  dog  in  a  thousand — Toah,  the  dart. 
And,  indeed,  I  myself  am  no  hireling — no  Iscariot.  For 
your  good  cousin,  Don  Raphael  Llorient,  of  Collioure, 
hath  as  yet  paid  me  no  wages — neither  gold  Ferdinand 
nor  silver  Philip  of  the  Indies.  A  good  day  to  you, 
Professor!  Sleep  in  peace,  little  Claire  Agnew!  For 
the  sake  of  one  Francis,  late  my  master,  we  will  watch 
over  you — even  I,  Berak  the  Lightning,  and  Toah  my 
dog!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE   THREE   SONS   OF   MADAME    AMELIE 

THEY  went  back,  keeping  step  together,  tall  Claire  with 
hand  fearlessly  placed  on  the  shoulder  of  her  Professor, 
who  straightened  ais  bowed  student-back  at  the  light 
touch. 

As  he  went  he  meditated  deeply,  and  Claire  waited  for 
him  to  speak.  Treading  lightly  by  his  side,  she  smelled 
the  honeysuckle  scent  of  the  sweet  alison  which  she  had 
carried  idly  away  in  her  hand. 

"If  the  Queen-Mother  be  dead,"  said  the  Professor, 
"that  is  one  more  stone  out  of  the  path  of  the  Bearnais. 
The  Valois  loves  a  strong  man  to  lean  upon.  For  that 
reason  he  clings  to  D'Epernon,  but  some  day  he  will  find 
out  that  Epernon  is  only  a  man  of  cardboard.  There  is 
but  one  in  France — or,  at  least,  one  with  the  gift  of 
drawing  other  strong  men  about  him." 

"The  Bearnais  ?"  queried  Claire,  playing  with  the  sweet 
alison ;  "I  wonder  where  he  has  his  camp  now  ?" 

She  asked  the  question  in  a  carelessly  meditative  way, 
and  quite  evidently  without  any  reference  to  the  fact  that 
a  certain  John  d'Albret  (once  called  in  jest  the  Abbe 
John)  was  the  youngest  full  captain  in  that  enthusiastic 
though  ill-paid  array.  But  the  Professor  did  not  hear 
her  question.  His  mind  was  set  on  great  matters  of 
policy,  while  Claire  wondered  whether  the  Abbe  John 
looked  handsome  in  his  accoutrements  of  captain.  Then 
she  thought  of  the  enemy  trying  to  kill  him,  and  it 
seemed  bitterly  wicked.  That  John  d'Albret  was  at  the 


The  White  Plume  169 

same  time  earnestly  endeavouring  to  kill  as  many  as 
possible  of  the  enemy  did  not  seem  to  matter  nearly  so 
much. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Professor,  "Henry  of  Valois  has  noth- 
ing else  for  it.  The  Leaguers  are  worse  than  ever, 
buzzing  like  a  cloud  of  hornets  about  his  head.  They 
hold  Paris  and  half  the  cities  of  France.  He  must  go  to 
the  King  of  Navarre,  and  that  humbly  withal !" 

"It  will  be  well  for  him  then,"  said  Claire,  "if  our 
Jean-aux-Choux  has  no  more  visions,  with  'Remember 
Saint  Bartholomew'  for  an  over-word !" 

"Ah,"  said  the  Professor,  "make  no  mistake.  A  man 
may  be  brave  and  politic  as  well.  'I  am  excellent 
at  taking  advice,  when  it  is  to  my  own  liking,'  said  the 
Bearnais,  and  he  will  teach  Master  Jean  to  see  visions 
also  to  his  liking!" 

At  which  Claire  laughed  merrily. 

"I  am  with  him  there !"  she  cried ;  "so  as  you  hope  for 
influence  with  me,  good  sir,  advise  me  in  the  line  of  my 
desires.  But,  ah,  yonder  is  your  mother." 

And  clapping  her  hands,  she  picked  up  her  skirts  and 
ran  as  hard  as  she  could  up  the  path  towards  a  trellised 
white  house  with  a  wide  balcony,  over  which  the  vines 
clambered  in  summer.  It  was  the  house  of  La  Masane, 
which  looks  down  upon  Collioure. 

Madame  Amelie,  or,  more  properly,  the  Senora,  was 
a  little,  quick-moving,  crisp-talking  woman,  with  an  eye 
that  snapped,  and  a  wealth  of  speech  which  left  her  son, 
the  Professor  of  Eloquence,  an  infinite  distance  behind. 
She  had  with  her  in  the  house  two  other  sons,  the  elder 
of  whom  was  the  Alcalde  of  the  little  town  of  Colliouie, 
and  therefore  intimately  linked  with  the  great  house  of 
the  Llorients,  whose  turreted  castle  stood  up  grimly 
midway  between  St.  Elne  and  La  Masane.  The  Alcalde 


170  The  White  Plume 

of  Collioure  was  a  staid  man  of  grave  aspect,  a  grinder 
of  much  corn  during  his  hours  of  work,  the  master  of 
six  windmills  which  creaked  and  groaned  on  the  windy 
slopes  above  the  sea- village.  In  his  broad  hat-brim  and 
in  the  folds  of  his  attire  there  was  always  more  or  less  of 
the  faint  grey-white  dust  which  hall-marks  the  maker  of 
the  bread  of  men. 

The  Alcalde  of  Collioure  thought  in  epigrams,  explain- 
ing his  views  in  wise  saws,  Catalan,  Castilian,  and  Pro- 
ven9al.  French  also  he  had  at  call,  though,  as  a  good 
subject  of  King  Philip,  he  thought,  or  affected  to  think, 
little  of  that  language.  His  brother,  the  lawyer  of  Elne, 
attached  to  the  bishopric  by  his  position,  was  a  politician, 
and  never  tired  of  foretelling  that  before  long  Roussillon 
would  be,  even  as  Beam  and  Navarre,  a  part  of  a  great 
and  united  France.  The  Bearnais  would  hold  the  Pyre- 
nees from  end  to  end. 

These  three  old  bachelors,  each  according  to  his  ability, 
did  their  best  to  spoil  Claire.  And  it  was  a  nightly 
battle  of  words,  to  be  settled  only  by  the  Senora,  who 
should  sit  next  her  at  supper.  With  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye  the  Professor  argued  his  seniority,  the  Mayor  of 
Collioure  his  official  position,  while  the  notary  brazenly 
declared  that  being  the  youngest  and  the  best-looking 
it  was  no  less  than  right  and  just  that  he  should  be 
preferred. 

Madame  Amelie  miscalled  them  all  for  foolish  old 
bachelors,  who  had  wasted  their  time  cosseting  them- 
selves, till  now  no  fair  young  maid  like  Claire  would  look 
at  any  one  of  them. 

"For  me,"  she  would  say,  "I  was  married  at  sixteen, 
and  now  my  Anatole  owns  to  more  than  fifty  years  and 
is  growing  bald.  Jean-Marie  there  waxes  stout  and  is  a 
corn-miller,  while  as  for  you,  Monsieur  the  Notary,  you 


The  White  Plume  171 

are  a  fox  who  rises  too  late  in  the  morning  to  catch  many 
roosting  fowls !" 

Claire  had  now  been  a  month  in  the  quiet  of  the  Mas  of 
La  Masane,  yet  she  only  now  began  to  understand  that 
Roussillon  was  a  detached  part  of  the  dominions  of 
King  Philip  of  Spain — though  it  was  nevertheless  tras 
los  monies,  and  under  a  good  governor  at  Perpignan 
enjoyed  for  the  moment  a  comparative  immunity. 

But  dark  shadows  loomed  upon  the  favoured  province. 

The  Demon  of  the  South  wanted  money.  Moreover, 
he  wanted  his  land  cleansed  of  heresy.  Rich  men  in 
Roussillon  were  heretics  or  the  children  of  heretics. 
Philip  was  fighting  the  Church's  quarrel  abroad  in  all 
lands,  on  all  waters — against  Elizabeth  of  England, 
against  the  bold  burghers  of  the  Low  Countries,  the 
Protestant  princes  of  Germany,  against  the  Bearnais,  and 
(but  this  secretly)  against  the  King  of  France. 

Far  away  where  the  hills  of  the  Gaudarrama  look  down 
upon  Madrid,  and  where  in  the  cold  wind-drift  from 
their  snows  the  life  of  a  man  goes  out  while  the  flame 
of  a  candle  burns  steadily,  sat  a  little  wizened  figure, 
bent  and  seared,  spinning  spiders'  webs  in  a  wilderness 
of  stone,  in  the  midst  of  a  desert  wherein  no  man  dwelt. 
He  spun  them  to  an  accompaniment  of  monks'  chanting 
and  the  tolling  of  bells,  but  every  hour  horsemen  went 
and  came  at  full  gallop  across  the  wild. 

The  palace  in  the  wilderness  was  the  Escurial,  and  the 
man  Philip  II.  of  Spain,  known  all  over  Europe  by  the 
terrible  name  of  "The  Demon  of  the  South." 

For  him  there  was  no  truce  in  this  war.  He  moved 
slowly,  as  he  himself  boasted,  with  a  foot  of  lead,  but 
hitherto  surely.  Of  his  own  land  he  was  absolutely  se- 
cure, save  perhaps  in  that  far  corner  of  ever-turbulent 
Catalonia  which  is  called  Roussillon. 


172  The  White  Plume 

The  inhabitants  considered  that  province  almost  a  part 
of  France.  The  Demon  of  the  South,  however,  thought 
otherwise — that  little  man  at  the  desk  whose  was  the 
League,  who  moved  Guise  and  all  the  rest  as  concealed 
clockwork  moves  the  puppets  when  the  great  Strasburg 
horologe  strikes  twelve — whose  was  the  Armada  and  the 
army  of  Parma,  camped  out  on  the  Flemish  dunes.  He 
held  that  Roussillon  was  for  him  a  kind  of  gold  mine. 
And  his  black  tax-gatherers  were  the  familiars  of  the 
Holy  Office,  that  mystery  of  mysteries,  the  Inquisition 
itself. 

Nevertheless,  for  the  moment,  there  was  peace — peace 
on  Collioure,  peace  on  the  towered  feudalism  of  the  castle 
thereof,  peace  on  the  alternate  fish-tailed  sapphire  and 
turquois  of  its  sleeping  sea,  and  most  of  all,  peace  on 
La  Masane,  over  against  the  high-perched  fortress  of  St. 
Elne. 

The  Senora's  two  maidens  served  the  evening  meal  in 
the  wide,  seaward-looking  room,  the  windows  of  which 
opened  like  doors  upon  the  covered  terrace.  Though 
the  spring  was  not  yet  far  advanced,  the  air  was  already 
sweet  and  scented  with  juniper  and  romarin,  lavender, 
myrtle,  and  lentisque — growths,  which,  like  the  bog- 
myrtle  of  Scotland,  smell  sweet  all  the  year. 

The  three  men  saluted  their  house-guest  sedately  by 
kissing  Claire  on  the  forehead.  To  the  Professor,  as  to 
an  older  friend  with  additional  privileges,  she  presented 
also  her  cheek.  From  the  head  of  the  table,  which  was 
hers  by  right,  Madame  Amelie  surveyed  tolerantly  yet 
sharply  this  interchange  of  civilities. 

"Have  done,  children,"  she  said ;  "the  soup  waits." 

And  as  of  all  things  the  soup  of  the  Mas  of  Collioure 
must  not  be  kept  waiting,  all  made  haste  to  bring  them-* 
selves  to  their  places.  Then  the  Sefiora,  glancing  about 


The  White  Plume  173 

to  see  that  all  were  in  a  fit  and  reverent  frame  of  mind, 

prepared  to  say  grace.  "Bene Don  Jordy !"  she 

interrupted  sharply,  "you  may  be  a  good  man  of  the 
law,  and  learned  in  Papal  bulls  and  seals,  but  the  Grace 
of  God  is  scant  in  you.  You  are  thinking  more  of 
that  young  maid  than  of  your  Maker!  Cross  yourself 
reverently,  Don  Jordy,  or  no  spoonful  of  soup  do  you 
eat  at  my  table  to-night." 

Don  Jordy  (which  is,  of  course,  to  say  George)  did  as 
his  mother  bade  him.  For  the  little  black-eyed  old  lady 
was  a  strict  disciplinarian,  and  none  crossed  her  will  in 
the  Mas  of  Collioure.  Yes,  these  three  grey-headed  men, 
each  with  a  man's  work  in  the  world  behind  him,  as  soon 
as  they  crossed  the  threshold  became  again  all  of  an  age 
— the  age  their  mother  wished  them  to  be,  when  she  had 
them  running  like  wild  goats  among  the  flocks  and  herds 
of  La  Masane.  Happy  that  rare  mother  whose  sons 
never  quite  grow  up. 

After  the  first  deep  breathings,  and  the  sigh  of  satis- 
faction with  which  it  was  the  custom  to  pay  homage  to 
the  excellent  pottage  of  Madame  Amelie,  the  second 
brother,  Jean-Marie,  Alcalde  of  Collioure,  a  quiet  smile 
defining  the  flour  dust  in  the  wrinkles  of  his  grave 
countenance  (it  was  not  his  day  for  shaving),  looked 
across  at  Claire  Agnew  and  said,  "I  thought  mayhap 
you  might  have  come  to  see  me  to-day.  I  was  down  at 
the  Fanal  Mill,  and " 

"There  are  finer  things  to  be  seen  at  Elne,"  inter- 
rupted the  Bishop's  notary,  "to  wit,  cloisters,  an  organ, 
and  fine  pictured  books  on  vellum." 

"Pshaw !"  cried  his  brother,  "it  is  better  in  the  mills 
— what  with  whirling  sails,  the  sleepy  clatter  of  the 
wheels,  and  the  grinding  stones,  with  the  meal  pouring 
down  its  funnel  like  a  mine  of  gold." 


174  The  White  Plume 

"Ah,"  sighed  the  lawyer,  "but  I  wearied  to-day  among 
my  parchments.  The  sight  of  you  has  spoilt  us.  A 
day  without  you  is  as  long  as  one  of  Count  Ugolino's !" 

"What  was  that?"  demanded  the  miller,  interested. 

"A  day  without  bread !"  said  the  notary. 

"Silence,  Don  Jordy,"  cried  the  Senora  to  her  favourite 
son ;  "that  tongue  of  yours  may  plead  well  in  a  court, 
or  for  aught  I  know,  speak  the  best  of  Latin  before  the 
wise  of  the  earth,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  here,  in  this 
my  house,  it  should  go  like  the  hopper  of  the  Fanal 
Mill !" 

"Architte  crepitaculum!"  said  the  notary;  "you  are 
right,  mother  mine — the  truly  eloquent  man,  like  our  Sir 
Professor,  keeps  his  eloquence  to  practise  on  young  maids 
by  the  sea-beach!  But  I  have  not  observed  him  fill  his 
mouth  with  pebbles  like  his  master." 

"You  are  indeed  but  young  things,"  said  Claire,  smiling 
at  the  Senora;  "I  would  not  take  any  one  of  you  from 
your  mother — no,  not  at  a  gift." 

"They  are  slow — slow,  my  sons,"  said  the  Senora,  well 
pleased;  "I  fear  me  they  will  be  buried  ere  they  be 
wed." 

"Then  we  shall  have  small  chance,"  cried  the  ruddy 
Don  Jordy,  "for  according  to  what  I  hear  my  betters  say 
over  yonder  at  the  Bishop's  palace,  in  the  place  whither 
we  are  bound  there  is  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in 
marriage !" 

"Good  brother,"  said  the  Professor  of  Eloquence  sen- 
tentiously,  "if  you  do  not  mend  your  ways,  you  may 
find  yourself  where  you  will  have  little  time  and  less 
inclination  for  such-like  gauds !" 

Meanwhile,  without  heeding  their  persiflage,  the  Senora 
pursued  the  even  tenor  of  her  meditation.  "Slow — slow," 
she  said,  "good  lads  all,  but  slow." 


The  White  Plume  175 

"It  was  not  our  fault,  but  yours,  that  we  are  Long," 
declared  that  hardened  humourist,  Don  Jordy;  "you 
married  our  father  of  your  own  free  will,  as  is  the  good 
custom  of  Roussillon.  Blame  us  not  then  that  we  are 
like  Lambm." 

"Lambin,"  cried  his  mother;  "who  was  he?  Some 
monkish  rascal  rungate  over  there  at  the  palace?" 

"Nay,  no  rungate ;  he  goes  too  slow  ever  to  run,"  said 
Don  Jordy.  "Have  you  never  heard  of  Lambin  our 
barber  episcopal? 

'  Lambin,  the  barber,  that  model  of  gravity, 

Shaving  the  chins  of  myself  and  my  brother, 
Handles  his  blade  with  such  reverend  sauvity, 
That  ere  one  side  is  smooth — lo,  'tis  rough  on  the  other  !'  " 

"And  I,"  said  the  Mayor  of  Collioure,  "have  been  this 
day  with  one  who  goes  fast  enough,  though  perhaps  he 
goes  to  the  devil." 

They  looked  at  the  miller  in  astonishment.  It  was  but 
seldom  that  he  served  himself  with  words  so  strong. 

"A  cousin  of  yours,  my  little  lady,"  he  added,  looking 
at  Claire. 

"Raphael  Llorient !"  cried  the  remaining  two  brothers ; 
"is  he  then  home  again  ?" 

"Aye,  indeed  he  is !"  said  a  voice  from  the  doorway. 
The  figure  they  saw  there  was  that  of  a  man  clad  in 
black  velvet,  fitting  his  slender,  almost  girlish  figure 
like  a  glove.  Only  a  single  decoration,  but  that  the  order 
of  the  Golden  Fleece,  hung  at  his  neck  from  a  red  ribbon. 
He  was  lithe  and  apparently  young,  but  Claire  could  not 
see  his  face  clearly.  He  remained  obstinately  against  the 
light,  but  she  could  see  the  points  of  a  slender  moustache, 
and  distinguish  that  the  young  man's  eyebrows  met  in  a 
thick  black  bar  on  his  forehead. 


176  The  White  Plume 

"Don  Raphael,"  said  the  Mayor  of  Collioure,  "you 
are  welcome  to  this  your  house.  This  is  my  brother 
Anatole,  Professor  of  Eloquence  at  the  Sorbonne " 

"Ah,  the  Parisian!"  said  the  young  man,  bowing 
slightly ;  "so  you  have  killed  King  Guise  after  crowning 
him?  We  in  Madrid  ever  thought  him  a  man  of  straw, 
for  all  his  strutting  and  cock-crowing.  He  would  have 
none  of  our  great  King  Philip's  advice.  And  so — and 
so — they  used  him  for  firewood  in  the  guard-room  at 
Blois !  Well,  every  dog  has  his  day.  And  who  may 
this  be — I  ask  as  lord  of  the  manor  and  feudal  superior* 
while  warming  myself  by  your  fire  as  a  friend — this 
pretty  maid  with  the  downcast  eyes  ?" 

"I  believe,"  said  the  Professor  gravely,  "that  the  lady 
is  your  own  cousin-german.  Her  name  is  Claire  Agnew, 
and  that  of  her  mother  was  Colette  Llorient  of  Collioure." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
COUSIN   RAPHAEL,   LORD    OF   COLLIOURE 

"Is  this  thing  true?" 

The  young  man  in  the  velvet  suit,  with  the  order  of  the 
Golden  Fleece  on  his  breast,  spoke  hastily  and  haughtily, 
jerking  his  head  back  as  if  Doctor  Anatole  had  made  to 
strike  him  in  the  face. 

"My  friend  Professor  Anatole  Long  does  not  lie,"  said 
Claire  firmly.  "I  am  the  daughter  of  Francis  Agnew  the 
Scot,  and  of  his  wife  Colette  Llorient." 

"You  are  prepared  to  prove  this?" 

"I  have  neither  wish  nor  need  to  prove  it,"  said  Claire. 
"I  am  content  to  be  my  father's  daughter,  and  to  have 
known  him  for  an  honest  man.  I  trust  not  to  shame  his 
memory !" 

The  young  man  with  the  golden  order  at  his  throat 
stood  biting  his  lip  and  frowning — with  a  frown  so  con- 
centrated and  deadly  that  Claire  thought  she  had  never 
seen  the  like. 

"The  daughter  of  Colette  Llorient — to  whom  my  grand- 
father  " 

He  broke  off  hastily,  his  sentence  unachieved.  Then 
all  at  once  his  mood  appeared  to  alter.  A  smile  broke 
upon  his  lips.  Upon  his  forehead  the  bushy  black  brows 
disjoined,  and  he  sat  down  near  Claire,  so  that  he  could 
look  in  her  face  with  the  light  of  the  sunset  streaming 
upon  it  through  the  door,  while  his  own  was  still  in 
shadow. 

"So  you  may  be  my  cousin — my  Aunt  Colette's  daugh- 


178  The  White  Plume 

ter,"  he  said  meditatively.  "Well,  Don  Jorge,  you  are 
a  lawyer  and  learned,  they  say.  I  charge  you  to  look 
at  any  papers  the  young  lady  may  have,  and  report  to 
your  brother,  this  grinder  of  good  meal  and  responsible 
civil  authority  of  my  town  of  Collioure.  And  pray  fell 
me,  little  one,"  he  continued,  taking  Claire's  hand,  as  if 
he  had  been  an  old  acquaintance,  "how  would  you  like 
me  for  a  cousin?  We  have  much  need  of  one  so  young 
and  fair  in  our  dingy  old  castle.  The  stock  of  the  Llori- 
ents  of  Collioure  has  worn  itself  away,  till  there  remains 
only  myself  and — if  there  be  no  mistake — you,  my  kins- 
woman, fresh  as  the  May  morning !  Why,  you  will  re- 
deem us  all!" 

It  was  then  that  the  Senora  found  her  tongue.  Indeed, 
she  had  not  lost  it.  But  she  did  not  approve  of  this 
too  familiar  and  masterful  young  man,  and  she  only 
waited  an  opportunity  of  telling  him  so. 

"Raphael  Llorient  of  Collioure,  listen  to  me,"  she  said. 
"I  was  your  foster-mother — you  and  my  Don  Jordy 
there  are  of  one  age,  and  lay  on  my  breast  together.  It 
is  my  right  to  speak  to  you,  since,  though  they  may  owe 
you  feudal  obedience  and  service,  I  abide  here  in  this 
house  of  La  Masane  for  the  term  of  my  natural  life.  Let 
this  maid  stay  with  us.  If  I  could  bring  up  you  and 
these  children  of  my  body,  I  am  able  to  guide  also  this 
young  maid,  who  has  nor  father  nor  mother." 

"But  we  have  gay  company  down  yonder  at  the  Castle," 
said  Raphael  Llorient,  "ladies  of  the  Court  even — or 
rather,  who  would  be  of  the  Court  if  we  had  one,  and 
not  merely  a  monastery  with  a  bureau  attached  for  the 
Man-who-traffics-in-kingdoms !" 

"I  wish  to  stay  here,"  said  Claire,  alarmed  all  at  once  by 
the  strangeness  of  her  kinsman's  manner.  "I  am  very 
happy,  and  Professor  Anatole  brought  me  from  Paris !" 


The  WTiite  Plume  179 

"Happy  Professor,"  smiled  the  Lord  of  Collioure,  some- 
what sneeringly.  "I  presume  he  did  not  forget  his  office, 
but  used  his  eloquence  to  some  purpose  by  the  way? 
But,  all  the  same,  though  we  will  not  compel  you,  sweet 
cousin,  it  would  cheer  us  mightily  if  you  would  come. 
There  are  great  ladies  now  doing  the  honours  of  my 
house — the  Countess  Livia,  the  Duchess  of  Err,  and — 
Valentine  la  Nina." 

"Raphael — little  son,"  said  the  old  lady,  laying  her 
withered  hand  on  his  lace  wristband,  "leave  her  with  me. 
She  is  better  and  safer  with  old  Mother  Amelie  than  with 
all  your  great  folk  down  there !" 

"That  for  the  great  folk!"  cried  the  young  man, 
snapping  his  fingers ;  "they  are  no  greater  than  any 
daughter  of  the  house  of  the  Llorients  of  Collioure. 
Besides,  they  have  seen  her  already.  The  duchess  passed 
her  yesterday  with  the  Countess  Livia  on  her  way  to 
the  rock-fishing.  But  I  will  not  tell  what  she  reported 
of  you  to  the  duke,  or  it  might  make  you  vain !" 

Claire  moved  uneasily.  The  man's  eyes  affected  her 
curiously.  She  would  now  very  gladly  have  sat  as  close 
to  the  Abbe  John  as  even  that  encroaching  youth  could 
have  wished. 

"Do  you  know,  little  cousin,"  the  lord  of  the  manor 
continued,  after  a  pause  in  which  no  one  spoke,  "you  are 
not  very  gracious  to  your  kinsfolk?  Perhaps  you  have 
more  of  them  than  I — in  Scotland,  maybe?" 

Claire  shook  her  head  sadly  enough. 

"Save  these  good  friends  here,  I  am  alone  in  the  world," 
she  answered  steadily.  "I  do  not  know  my  father's 
family  in  Scotland.  I  think  they  know  as  little  of  me  as 
you  did  before  entering  that  door !" 

"Perhaps,"  Raphael  went  on  courteously,  "that  is  more 
than  you  think.  We  are  a  poor  little  village,  a  poverty- 


180  The  White  Plume 

stricken  countryside,  in  which  such  a  pearl  as  you  cannot 
long  be  hidden.  Somebody  will  surely  be  wanting  it  for 
their  crown !" 

"Pearls  mean  tears,  and  of  those  I  have  shed  enough," 
said  Claire  simply ;  "also  I  have  seen  and  heard  much 
of  crowns  and  those  who  wear  them.  I  would  rather 
stay  at  the  Mas  and  take  the  goats  to  the  mountains, 
and " 

"The  learned  Professor  to  the  beach !"  added  Raphael, 
with  a  curl  of  his  lip. 

"Indeed,  yes!"  cried  Claire,  reaching  out  her  hand  to 
the  Professor.  "I  am  always  happy  with  him.  He 
teaches  me  so  many  things.  My  father  was  a  wise  man, 
but  he  lacked  the  time  to  talk  much  with  me." 

"And  I  dare  say  the  learned  Professor  of  the  Sor- 
bonne  gives  his  time  willingly,"  said  the  Lord  of 
Collioure;  "his  tastes  are  not  singular.  And  pray,  of 
your  courtesy,  what  might  he  teach  you  in  your  tete-a- 
tetes?" 

"I  have  everything  to  learn,"  Claire  answered  with 
intent,  "except  fencing  with  the  small-sword  and  how 
to  shoot  straight  with  a  pistol !  These  my  father  taught 
me!" 

"Ah,"  cried  Raphael  Lldrient,  clapping  his  hands,  "this 
is  a  dangerous  damsel  to  offend.  Why,  you  could  call 
us  all  out,  and  kill  us  one  by  one,  if  duelling  were  not  for- 
bidden in  Spain." 

"I  stand  for  peace,"  said  the  Professor,  interrupting 
unexpectedly,  for  even  after  many  years  filled  with 
learned  labours  and  crowned  with  success,  the  feudal 
reverence  was  strong  on  him ;  "I  am  a  man  of  peace,  but 
there  are  many  who  would  not  let  Mistress  Claire  go  with- 
out a  defender.  Even  I ' 

The  feudal  superior  laughed  unpleasantly. 


The  White  Plume  181 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  cried,  "you  would  defend  her  with  a 
syllogism,  draw  your  major  and  minor  premises  upon  an 
insulter,  and  vanquish  the  lady's  foes  before  a  full  meet- 
ing of  the  Sorbonne !" 

"Indeed,"  returned  the  Professor  shortly,  "we  have  had 
some  meetings  of  that  body  lately  which  came  near  to 
losing  kings  their  thrones !" 

The  keen,  dark  features  of  the  Lord  of  Collioure  took 
on  a  graver  expression. 

"Where  I  come  from,"  he  said,  "we  live  too  near  to  the 
rack  and  the  water-torture  to  air  our  opinions  concerning 
such  things.  Our  Philip  has  taught  us  to  guard  our 
thoughts  for  times  when  we  find  ourselves  some  distance 
outside  the  frontiers  of  Spain." 

He  cast  a  significant  look  around,  on  the  dusking 
purplish  sea,  on  the  great  mass  of  Estelle  and  the 
Canigou,  standing  out  black  against  a  saffron  sky.  The 
glance  conveyed  to  those  who  knew  Raphael  Llorient 
that  they  dwelt  at  present  too  far  within  the  dangerous 
bounds  of  Spain,  and  that  if  they  had  once  to  do  with 
the  Demon  of  the  South,  it  would  be  worse  for  them  than 
many  Holy  Leagues  and  Bearnais  war-levyings. 

He  rose  to  take  his  leave,  kissing  the  Senora,  and  pal- 
pably hesitating  between  Claire's  cheek  and  her  hand, 
till  something  in  the  girl's  manner  decided  him  on  the 
latter. 

"Au  revoir,  sweet  cousin  newly  found!"  he  cried,  lift- 
ing his  black  velvet  bonnet  to  his  head  with  grace;  "I 
hope  you  will  like  me  better  the  next  time  you  see  me. 
I  warn  you  I  shall  come  with  credentials  !" 

"I  sha'n't — I  won't — I  never  could!"  Claire  was  af- 
firming to  herself  behind  her  shut  lips,  even  as  he  was 
speaking. 

"I  hate  that  man !"  she  burst  out,  as  soon  as  the  lithe 


182  The  WTdte  Plume 

slender  figure  in  the  black  velvet  suit  was  sufficiently  far 
out  of  earshot  down  the  mountain-side. 

"You  mean,"  said  the  Professor  soothingly,  "that  you 
are  a  little  afraid  of  Don  Raphael.  I  do  not  wonder. 
Perhaps  I  did  wrong  to  bring  you  here.  But  I  never 
thought  to  see  him  cross  this  doorstep.  He  has  not 
done  so  much  for  years  and  years.  For  how  long, 
mother?" 

"For  sixteen  years — not  since  his  father's  death," 
said  the  old  woman ;  "he  was  angry  that  the  farm  of 
La  Masane  was  left  to  me  burden-free  for  my  lifetime, 
when  he  had  so  great  need  of  the  money  to  spend  in 
Madrid !" 

"I  hate  him!  I  cannot  tell  why — no,"  added  Claire, 
recurring  to  the  former  speech  of  Professor  Anatole,  "I 
do  not  fear  him — why  should  I?  In  the  end  I  am 
stronger  than  he !" 

"Ah,"  said  the  Professor,  "but  it  is  always  such  a  long 
way  to  the  end !" 


CHAPTER   XXV 


THERE  could  be  no  longer  any  doubt  about  it.  Raphael 
Llorient,  Lord  of  Collioure,  was  in  love  with  his  cousin. 
At  least  he  made  love  to  her,  which,  of  course,  is  an 
entirely  different  thing.  The  Professor  pointed  this  out. 
The  grave  Alcalde  of  Collioure  showed  the  meal-dust  in 
a  new  wrinkle,  and  said  that,  for  a  Doctor  of  a  learned 
college  which  excluded  women  as  unholy  things,  Anatole 
was  strangely  learned  in  matters  which  concerned  them. 
Whereupon  the  Professor  asked  his  brother  who  had 
placed  a  handful  of  early  roses  beside  Claire's  platter,  in 
a  tall  green  Venice  glass,  at  the  mid-day  meal.  He  further 
remarked  that  these  roses  came  from  the  castle  gardens, 
and  wished  to  be  informed  whether  the  miller  of  Collioure 
was  grinding  his  own  corn  or  another  man's. 

Don  Jordy  openly  laughed  at  them  both.  One  he  de- 
clared to  be  bald  and  the  other  musty.  He  alone,  owing 
to  his  handsome  face  and  figure — considering  also  his 
semi-ecclesiastical  prestige,  a  great  thing  with  women  in 
all  ages — had  a  right  to  hope ! 

The  Professor  broke  in  more  sharply  than  became  his 
learned  dignity. 

"Tush — what  is  the  use?"  he  said,  not  without  a  cer- 
tain bitterness;  "she  is  not  for  any  of  us.  I  have  seen 
another.  I  have  stood  silently  by  while  she  was  think- 
ing about  him.  I  do  as  much  every  day.  If  we  all  died 
for  her  sake " 

Don  Jordy  clapped  his  elder  brother  on  the  shoulder 


184  The  White  Plume 

with  a  more  anxious  face,  crying,  "What,  man,  surely 
this  is  not  serious?  Why,  Anatole,  I  thought  you  had 
never  looked  on  women — since — but  that  is  better  not 
spoken  of.  I  was  only  jesting,  lad.  You  know  me  bet- 
ter than  that !" 

But  Jean-Marie,  the  Alcalde  of  Collioure,  gravely  shook 
his  head.  He  knew  Raphael  Llorient  was  not  a  man  to 
stick  at  trifles,  and  that  the  fact  that  his  young  cousin 
loved  an  unseen  captain  warring  for  the  Bearnais  would 
only  whet  his  desires.  So  it  happened  that  once 
in  a  way  the  service  of  defence  broke  down.  The 
Senora,  a  brave  worker  about  her  house,  could  not  pass 
the  bounds  of  her  garden  without  laying  herself  up  for 
days.  The  Alcalde  was  down  at  his  mills,  the  Notary 
Ecclesiastical  had  ridden  over  to  Elne  on  his  white 
mule,  by  the  path  that  zigzagged  along  the  sea  cliff, 
up  among  the  rock-cystus  and  the  romarin,  twining 
and  twisting  like  a  dust-coloured  snake  striking  from 
coil. 

The  Professor,  called  by  a  sudden  summons  to  the  castle 
to  see  a  most  learned  man  who  had  just  arrived  from 
Madrid,  and  was  high  in  the  favour  of  Philip  of  Spain, 
had  betaken  himself  most  unwillingly  down  to  the  town. 
It  was  a  still  day,  and  the  sea  without  hardly  moved 
on  its  fringe  of  pebbles,  sucking  a  little  with  languid 
lip  and  sighing  like  an  infant  fallen  asleep  at  the  mother's 
breast.  Claire  Agnew  wearied  of  the  stillness  of  the 
house-place.  In  the  base-court,  she  could  hear  Madame 
Amelie  calling  "Vienn-ne,  vienn-ne*"  to  her  goats.  For 
there  was  no  milk  like  Madame  Amelie's  of  the  Mas  of 
La  Masane  above  Collioure,  and  no  goats  so  well  treated. 
Why,  each  day  they  had  a  great  pot-au-feu  of  nettles, 
and  carrots,  and  wild  mustard  leaves,  just  like  Christians. 
So  careless  and  wasteful  are  some  people.  As  if  goats 


The  White  Plume  185 

were  not  made  to  find  their  own  living  among  rocks  and 
stone  walls ! 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  collated  opinion  of  Collioure, 
jealous  more  than  a  little  of  the  good  hill-farm  in  free 
life-rent,  the  three  well-doing  sons,  and  smarting,  too, 
after  fifty  years'  experience  of  the  Senora's  tongue, 
which,  when  the  mood  was  upon  her,  could  crack  like  a 
wine-waggoner's  whip  about  the  ears  of  the  forward  or 
froward. 

The  house  silence,  broken  only  by  the  solemn  pacing 
of  the  great  seven-foot  Proven £al  clock,  ventrose,  alder- 
manic,  profusely  gilded  as  to  its  body  and  floreated  as  to 
its  face,  presently  grew  too  much  for  Claire.  She  was 
nervous  to-day  at  any  rate. 

She  regarded  the  dial  of  the  big  clock.  Half-past 
three !  In  a  little  while  the  goats  would  be  coming  home 
to  be  milked.  That  would  be  something.  They  gen- 
erally kicked  her  when  they  did  not  butt.  Still,  that 
also  was  interesting.  "Patience,"  said  Claire  to  herself, 
though  it  is  hard  to  be  patient  with  an  active  goat  in  an 
unfriendly  mood. 

Then  round  the  corner  of  the  sea-road  Notary  Don 
Jorge  would  be  arriving  presently,  the  westering  sun 
shining  on  the  white  mule  which  the  bishop  had  given 
him  for  his  easier  transport.  They  believed  greatly  in 
Don  Jordy  over  at  Elne.  He  it  was  who  had  pled  their 
case  as  against  big,  grasping,  brand-new  Perpignan, 
which  wanted  to  take  away  their  bishopric,  their  relics, 
their  prestige,  and  its  ancient  glory  from  their  hill-set 
cathedral.  Yes,  Don  Jordy  would  be  coming.  He  al- 
ways had  a  new  jest  each  evening — a  merry  man  and  a 
loyal,  Don  Jordy.  Claire  liked  him,  his  rosy  monk's 
face  and  twinkling  light -blue  eyes. 

Then,  presently,  the  Alcalde  Jean-Marie  would  come 


186  The  White  Plume 

climbing  up,  the  abundantly-vowelled  Provei^al  speech, 
sweet  and  slow,  dropping  like  honey  from  his  lips.  It 
was  fun  to  tease  Jean-Marie.  He  took  such  a  long  time 
to  get  ready  his  retorts.  He  was  like  the  big,  blundering, 
good-natured  humble-bees  aforesaid — you  could  always 
be  far  away  before  he  got  ready  to  be  angry.  Then,  like 
them,  he  would  go  muttering  and  grumbling  away,  large 
and  dusty,  and — not  too  clever. 

The  Professor  also ;  he  would  not  stay  long,  she  knew, 
down  at  the  castle  with  that  very  learned  man  from  Ma- 
drid. Nor  yet  with  the  great  ladies.  He  would  rather 
be  listening  to  his  friend,  little  Claire  Agnew,  reading 
the  Genevan  Testament,  while  he  compared  Calvin's  ren- 
dering with  the  original  Greek,  or  perhaps  merely  sit- 
ting silently  on  their  favourite  knoll  above  the  blue 
Mediterranean,  watching  the  white  town,  the  grey  and 
gold  castle  walls,  and  the  whirling  sails  of  Jean-Marie's 
windmills. 

Yes,  they  would  all  be  coming  back,  some  one  of  them  at 
least ;  or,  if  not,  there  would  at  least  be  the  Senora  and 
the  kicking  goats.  It  was  better  to  be  kicked  than  to  be 
bored  and  ennuyee,  and  sickened  with  the  measured  im- 
measurable "tick-tack"  of  time  as  it  was  doled  emptily  out 
by  the  big-bellied  Prove^al  clock  in  the  kitchen-corner. 

At  La  Masane  above  Collioure,  Claire  suffered  from 
the  weariness  of  riches,  the  embarrassment  of  choice.  In 
a  little  forsaken  village,  with  her  father  busied  about  his 
affairs,  she  would  have  been  well  content  all  day  with  no 
more  than  her  needlework  and  her  Genevan  Bible.  There 
were  maps  in  that,  and  a  beautiful  plan  of  the  ark,  so 
that  she  could  discuss  with  herself  where  to  put  each  of 
the  animals.  But  at  La  Masane,  with  four  people  eager 
to  do  her  pleasure,  the  maiden  picked  and  chose  as  if 

culling  flowers  among  the  clover  meadows. 


The  White  Plume  187 

So  Claire  went  out,  and  stood  a  long  minute.  Her  hand 
went  up  to  her  brow,  and  she  looked  abroad  on  her  new 
world.  She  could  hear  where  to  find  the  Senora.  She 
loved  the  Senora.  But  then  the  Senora  and  the  goats 
she  had  always  with  her.  On  the  whole,  she  preferred  the 
men — any  of  the  men — to  amuse  her,  and,  yes,  of  course, 
to  instruct  her  also.  Claire  felt  her  need  of  instruction. 

She  looked  down  the  steep  zigzags  of  the  path  over  the 
cliff  to  the  towers  of  the  Castle  of  Collioure.  She  saw  no 
Professor,  staff  in  hand,  walking  a  little  stiffly,  his  hat 
tilted  on  the  back  of  his  head  or  carried  in  his  hand,  that 
he  might  the  more  easily  look  up  at  La  Masane  when  he 
came  in  sight  of  his  birthplace. 

The  Alcalde-miller's  towers  stood  out  dazzlingly  white, 
the  sails  turning  merrily  as  if  at  play.  They  made  her 
giddy  to  look  at  long.  But  no  sturdy  Jean-Marie  was  to 
be  seen,  his  bust  thrown  out,  the  stiff  fuzz  of  his  beard 
half  a  foot  before  him  as  he  walked,  every  way  a  solid 
man,  and  worthy  to  be  chief  magistrate  of  a  greater  town 
than  Collioure.  Only,  just  at  that  moment,  Claire  could 
not  see  him. 

The  whip-lash  path,  running  perilously  along  the  cliff- 
edge  towards  Elne,  was  broken  by  no  slowly-crawling 
white  speck,  the  mule  bestridden  by  Don  Jordy,  Notary 
Epicopal  of  the  ancient  see  of  the  Bishops  of  Elne 

Remained  for  Claire — the  Senora,  the  goats. 

Now  it  chanced  that  the  night  before,  the  Alcalde 
Jean-Marie,  grappling  for  small-talk  in  the  dense 
medium  of  his  brain,  had  thought  to  point  out  to  Claire  a 
little  ravine  far  away  to  the  left, beyond  the  pasture  limits 
of  La  Masane.  The  Alcalde  was  strong  on  local  topog- 
raphy. That,  he  said,  was  the  famous  sweet-water 
fountain  and  Chapel  of  the  Consolation.  You  found 
your  fate  there.  Young  girls  saw  their  husband  that  was 


188  The  White  Plume 

to  be,  upon  dropping  a  pin  into  its  depths  in  the  twilight. 
Good  young  women  (imaginatively  given)  sometimes  saw 
the  Virgin,  or  thought  they  did.  While  bad  men,  stoop- 
ing to  drink,  certainly  saw  the  devil  looking  up  at  them 
— in  the  plain,  clear  mirror  of  that  sweet-water  spring. 
A  most  various  spring — useful,  too!  She  might  see — 
but  Claire  did  not  anticipate  even  to  herself  what  or 
whom  she  hoped  to  see.  At  any  rate,  pending  the  arrival 
of  her  three  male  servitors,  she  would  go — there  could 
be  no  harm  in  just  going — to  the  Spring  of  the  Con- 
solation, hid  deep  in  that  bosky  dell  over  which  the 
willow  and  oleander  cast  so  pleasant  a  shade. 

Claire  snatched  a  broad  Navarrese  bonnet  and  went. 

###*•# 

"My  sweet  cousin,  I  bid  you  welcome,"  a  voice  spoke, 
mocking  a  little,  but  quiet  and  penetrating. 

Hastily  Claire  let  the  laurel  branch  slip  back,  stood 
upright  like  a  startled  fawn,  and — found  herself  in  face 
of  Raphael  Llorient,  who  at  the  other  side  of  the  little 
brook  which  flowed  from  the  Spring  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Consolation,  leaned  against  a  tree,  tapping  his  knee  with 
a  switch  and  smiling  triumphantly  across  at  her. 

"Ah,  cousin,"  he  said,  "you  did  not  give  me  any  very 
pressing  invitation  to  come  again  to  see  you  at  the  Mas 
on  the  hillside  yonder.  All  the  more  gracious  of  you, 
therefore,  to  have  come  so  far  to  meet  me  at  my  favourite 
retreat !" 

"But  I — I  did  not  know — I  had  no  idea "  Claire 

stammered. 

The  Lord  of  Collioure  waved  his  hand  easily,  as  one  who 
passed  lightly  from  a  childish  indiscretion. 

"Of  course  not — of  course  not,"  he  agreed,  as  if 
humouring  her  mood ;  "how  should  you  know  ?  You  had 
never  even  heard  of  the  Spring  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Con- 


CLAIRE    .    .    .    FOUND       HERSELF       IN       FACE       OF 
RAPHAEL       LLORIENT 


The  White  Plume  189 

solation,  or  of  its  magic  properties.  Well,  we  have  time 
— I  will  explain  them  to  you,  sweet  cousin  Claire !" 

"Oh,  pray  do  not,"  cried  Claire  breathlessly ;  "I  know 
— what  they  say — what  Jean-Marie  says,  that  is.  He 
pointed  out  the  nest  of  bushes  on  the  hillside  last  night 
— I  should  not  have  come !" 

"And  he  told  you,  I  doubt  not — he  would  not  be  a 
Collioure  man  if  he  did  not,  and  a  good  Catholic  of 
Roussillon  (which  is  to  say  a  good  pagan) — that  you 
had  but  to  look  in  the  well  at  the  gloaming  to  see  the 
Predestined.  Well,  look !" 

In  spite  of  herself  Claire  glanced  downwards.  She 
stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  it  from  her  cousin  Raphael, 
and  it  was  with  a  thrill  of  anger  and  fear  that  she  saw 
his  slender  figure  mirrored  in  the  black  pool. 

"It  looks  like  a  betrothal — eh,  cousin?"  said  Raphael, 
"even  by  your  friend  Jean-Marie's  telling?" 

"No,  no!"  cried  Claire  desperately,  "I  do  not  believe 
it.  It  is  only  because  I  found  you  standing  there.  Of 
course,  you  can  also  see  me  from  where  you  stand!  It 
is  nothing !" 

"It  is  everything — a  double  proof  of  our  fate,  yours 
and  mine,  my  cousin,"  said  Raphael  softly.  "The  Well 
of  the  Consolation  has  betrothed  us.  Sweet  cousin  Claire, 
there  remains  for  me  only  to  leap  the  slight  obstacle  and 
take  possession!  So  fair  a  bride  goes  not  long  a-- 
begging !" 

"No,  no!"  cried  Claire,  more  emphatically,  and  mak- 
ing sure  of  her  retreat  in  case  of  need,  "I  do  not  want 
to  marry.  I  could  not  marry  you,  at  any  rate — you  are 
my  cousin !" 

Inwardly  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "I  must  speak  him 
fair  to  get  away.  When  once  I  am  back  at  La  Masane 
I  shall  never  wander  away  again  from  the  Seiiora.  I 


190  The  White  Plume 

shall  milk  goats  all  my  life — even  if  they  butt  me.  I 
wish  it  were  now."  Her  cousin  Llorient  smiled  with 
subtlety.  There  was  a  flash  in  his  eyes  in  the  dusk  of 
the  wood  like  that  of  a  wild  animal  seen  in  a  cave. 

"Because  I  am  your  cousin — is  it  that  I  must  not  marry 
you?  Pshaw!"  he  said;  "what  of  that?  Am  I  not  a 
servant  of  King  Philip,  and  of  some  favour  with  him? 
Also  he1  with  the  Pope,  who,  though  he  hates  him,  dares 
not  refuse  all  his  asking  to  the  Right  Hand  of  Holy 
Church." 

Claire  glanced  behind  her.  The  little  path  among  the 
bushes  was  narrow,  but  beyond  the  primrose  sky  of 
evening  peeped  through.  Two  steps,  one  wild  rush,  and 
she  would  be  out  on  the  open  brae-face,  the  heath  and 
juniper  under  foot,  springy  and  close-matted — perfect 
running  right  to  the  door  of  La  Masane. 

She  launched  her  ultimatum. 

"I  will  not  wed  you,  whether  you  speak  in  jest  or 
earnest.  I  would  rather  marry  Don  Jordy,  or  his  white 
mule,  or  one  of  Jean-Marie's  windmills.  No,  not  if  you 
got  fifty  dispensations  from  as  many  popes.  I  am  of  the 
religion  oppressed  and  persecuted — Huguenot,  Calvinist, 
Protestant.  As  my  father  was — as  he  lived  and  died — so 
will  I  live  and  die !" 

With  a  backward  step  she  was  gone,  the  bushes  swish- 
ing about  her.  In  a  moment  she  was  out  on  the  open 
slope,  flying  towards  La  Masane.  There  was  the  Pro- 
fessor laboriously  climbing  up  from  the  castle,  his  hat 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  staff  in  his  hand,  just  as 
she  had  foreseen.  Good  kind  Professor,  how  she  loved 
him! 

There,  at  the  door  of  the  Fanal  Mill,  making  signs  to 
her  with  his  arms,  signals  as  clumsy  as  the  whirling  of 
the  great  sails,  now  disconnected  and  anchored  for  the 


The  White  Plume  191 

night,  was  the  Miller-Alcalde  Jean-Marie,  the  flour- 
dust  doubtless  in  his  beard  and  mapping  the  wrinkles  of 
his  honest  face.  She  loved  him,  too — -she  loved  the  flour- 
dust  also,  so  glad  was  she  to  get  away  from  the  Well  of 
the  Consolation. 

But  nearer  even  than  Don  Jordy,  whose  white  mule  dis- 
engaged itself  from  the  rocky  wimples  of  the  road  to 
Elne  (Claire  loved  Don  Jordy  and  the  mule  also,  even 
more  than  she  had  said  to  Raphael,  her  cousin),  there 
appeared  a  lonely  sentinel,  motionless  on  a  rock.  A 
mere  black  figure  it  was,  wrapped  in  a  great  cloak,  on 
his  head  the  slouched  hat  of  the  Roussillon  shepherds, 
looped  up  at  the  side,  and  a  huge  dog  couchant  at  his 
feet. 

" Jean-aux-Choux !  Jean — Jean — Jean!"  cried  Claire. 
And  she  never  could  explain  how  it  came  to  pass  that 
her  arms  were  about  Jean's  neck,  or  why  there  was  a 
tear  on  her  cheek.  She  did  not  know  she  had  been  weep- 
ing. 

By  the  Fountain  of  the  Consolation  Raphael  Llorient 
remained  alone.  He  did  not  even  trouble  to  follow 
Claire  in  her  wild  flight.  He  had  the  girl,  as  he  thought, 
under  his  hand,  whenever  he  chose  to  lift  her.  Her 
anger  did  not  displease  him — on  the  contrary. 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  the  lifting  of  the  lip  gave  a 
momentary  glimpse  of  white  teeth,  which,  taken  together 
with  the  greenish  sub-glitter  (like  shot  silk)  of  his  eyes, 
was  distinctly  unpleasant  in  the  twilight  of  the  wood. 

"The  little  vixen,"  he  said  to  himself,  changing  his 
pose  against  the  great  olive  for  one  yet  more  graceful, 
"the  small  fury!  A  little  more  and  she  would  have 
bitten  her  lip  through.  I  saw  the  tremble  of  the  under 
one  where  the  teeth  were  biting  into  it,  when  she  was 
holding  herself  in.  But  I  like  her  none  the  worse  for 


192  The   White  Plume 

that.  Women  are  the  poorest  sort  of  wild  cattle — unless 
you  have  to  tame  them !" 

The  night  darkened  down.  The  primrose  of  the  sky 
changed  to  the  saffron  red  of  a  mountain-gipsy's  hand- 
kerchief, crimsoned  to  a  deep  welter  of  incarnadine,  the 
"flurry"  of  the  dying  day.  Still  Raphael  stood  there 
by  the  black  pool.  A  little  bluish  glimmer,  which  might 
have  been  will-o'-the-wisp,  danced  across  the  marisma. 
The  trees  sighed.  The  water  muttered  to  itself. 

In  that  place  and  time,  simple  shepherd-folk  who  had 
often  seen  Raphael,  Lord  of  Collioure,  pass  in  to  the 
haunted  copice,  were  entirely  sure  of  the  explanation. 
The  devil  spoke  with  him — else  why  was  he  not  afraid? 
They  were  right. 

For  Raphael  Llorient  took  counsel  there  with  his  own 
heart.  And  as  that  was  evil,  it  amounted  to  the  same 
thing. 

The  Kingdom  of  God  is  within  you,  saith  the  Word. 
The  other  kingdom  also,  according  to  your  choice  » 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
FIRST    COUNCIL    OF    WAR 

THERE  was  more  than  one  council  of  war  within  the 
bounds  of  the  circle  of  hills  that  closed  in  little  Collioure 
that  night. 

First,  that  which  was  held  within  the  kitchen-place  of 
La  Masane.  The  maids  were  busied  with  the  cattle,  but 
all  three  brothers  were  there.  The  Seiiora,  sloe-eyed  and 
vivid,  continually  interrupted,  now  by  spoken  word, 
now  trotting  to  the  steaming  casseroles  upon  the  fire,  anon 
darting  to  the  door  to  make  sure  that  this  time  no  un- 
welcome visitor  should  steal  upon  them  at  unawares. 

When  Claire  had  told  her  story,  the  three  men  sat 
grave  and  silent,  each  deep  in  his  own  thoughts.  Only 
the  Senora  was  voluble  in  her  astonishment.  She  thought 
she  knew  her  foster-child. 

"He  had,  indeed,  ever  the  grasping  hand,"  she  said, 
"therefore  I  had  thought  he  would  have  married  lands 
wide  and  rich  with  some  dwarfish  bride,  or  else  a  mer- 
chant's daughter  of  Barcelona,  whose  Peruvian  dollars 
needed  the  gilding  of  his  nobility.  But  Claire — and  she 
is  his  cousin  too " 

"Also  no  Catholic — nor  ever  will  be !"  interrupted  Claire 
hotly. 

The  old  lady  sighed.  This  was  a  sore  subject  with 
her.  Had  she  not  spent  three  reals  every  week  in  candles 
at  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin  in  the  Church  of  Collioure, 
sending  down  the  money  by  one  of  her  maidens,  all  to 
give  effect  to  her  prayers  for  the  conversion  of  her 


194  The  White  Plume 

guest?  For  Donna  Amelie  believed,  as  every  Spanish 
woman  does  in  her  heart  believe,  that  out  of  the  fold  of 
the  Church  is  no  salvation. 

"Ah,  well,"  she  murmured  on  this  occasion,  "that  was 
your  father's  teaching — on  him  be  the  sin." 

For  dying  unconfessed,  as  Francis  Agnew  had  done, 
she  thought  a  little  more  would  not  matter. 

"I  have  been  too  long  away  to  guess  his  meaning,  may- 
be," said  the  Professor  at  last ;  "for  me — I  would  give — 
well,  no  matter — he  is  not  the  man,  as  I  read  him,  to  fall 
honestly  in  love  even  with  the  fairest  girl  that  lives 


.1" 


"You  are  not  polite,"  said  Claire  defiantly ;  "surely  the 
man  may  like  me  for  myself  as  well  as  another?  Allow 
him  that,  at  least !" 

But  the  Professor  only  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  quiet 
a  fretting  child.  It  was  a  serious  question,  that  which 
was  before  them  to  settle.  They  must  work  it  out  with 
slow  masculine  persistence. 

"Wait  a  little,  Claire,"  he  said  tenderly;  "what  say 
my  brothers  ?"  The  Alcalde  in  turn  shook  his  head  more 
gravely  than  usual. 

"No,"  he  said,  "there  is  something  rascally  at  the  back 
of  Don  Raphael's  brain.  I  will  wager  that  he  knew  of 
his  cousin  being  here  the  first  night  he  came  to  La 
Masane !" 

"I  have  it,"  cried  Don  Jordy ;  "I  remember  there  was 
something  in  his  grandfather's  will  (yours,  too,  my  pretty 
lady!)  about  a  portion  to  be  laid  aside  for  his  daughter 
Colette.  I  have  seen  a  copy  of  the  deed  in  the  episcopal 
registry.  It  was  very  properly  drawn  by  one  of  my  pred- 
ecessors. Now,  old  Don  Emmanuel-Stephane  Llorient 
lived  so  long  that  all  his  sons  died  or  got  themselves  killed 
before  him — it  never  was  a  hard  matter  to  pick  a  quarrel 


The  White  Plume  195 

with  a  Llorient  of  Collioure.  So  this  grandson  Raphael 
had  his  grandfather's  estates  to  play  ducks  and  drakes 
with " 

"More  ducks  than  drakes,"  put  in  the  sententious 
miller. 

"Also,"  the  lawyer  continued,  without  heeding,  "I 
would  wager  that  to-day  there  is  but  little  left  of  the 
patrimony  of  little  Colette,  your  mother,  and 

"He  would  marry  you  to  hide  his  misuse  of  your 
money !"  cried  the  miller,  slapping  his  thigh,  as  if  he 
had  discovered  the  whole  plot  single-handed. 

"Exactly,"  said  Don  Jordy ;  "he  would  cover  his  mis- 
appropriation with  the  cloak  of  marriage.  I  warrant  also 
he  has  lied  to  the  King  as  to  the  amount  of  the  legacy, 
perhaps  denying  that  there  was  any  benefice  at  all — 
saying  that  he  had  paid  the  amount  to  your  father — or 
what  not !  And  our  most  catholic  Philip  can  forgive  all 
sins  except  those  which  lose  him  money — so  Master 
Raphael  finds  himself  in  a  tight  place !" 

The  silence  which  followed  Don  Jordy's  exposition 
was  a  solemn  one — that  is,  to  all  except  Claire,  who  only 
pouted  a  little  with  ostentatious  discontent. 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  she  cried;  "money  or 
no  money,  will  or  no  will,  it  is  just  as  possible  that  he 
wants  to  marry  me — because — because  he  wants  to  marry 
me !  There !" 

But  the  Senora  knew  better. 

"True  it  is,  my  little  lady,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head, 
"that  any  man  might  wisely  and  gladly  crave  your  love 
and  your  hand — aye,  any  honest  man,  were  he  a  king's 
son"  ((here  Claire  thought  of  a  certain  son  of  Saint 
Louis,  many  times  removed,  now  mending  his  shoes 
on  the  corner  of  a  farrier's  anvil  in  the  camp  of  the 
Bearnais) — "an  honest  man,  I  said.  But  not  Raphael 


196  The  White  Plume 

Llorient,  your  cousin  and  my  foster-son.  He  never 
had  a  thought  but  for  himself  since  he  was  a  babe, 
and  even  then  he  would  thrust  Don  Jordy  there  aside, 
as  if  I  had  not  been  his  mother.  I  was  a  strong 
woman  in  those  days,  and  sucked  twins — or  what  is 
harder,  a  foster-child  and  mine  own,  doing  justice  to 
both!" 

And  Claire,  a  little  awed  by  the  old  lady's  vehemence, 
jested  no  more. 

There  was  little  said  till  Donna  Amelie  took  Claire  up 
with  her  to  her  chamber,  and  the  three  men  were  left 
alone.  The  Professor  sighed  deeply. 

"Women  are  kittle  handling,"  he  said.  "I  brought  you 
a  little  orphan  maid.  I  knew,  indeed,  that  she  was  Colette 
Llorient's  daughter,  and  that  there  was  some  risk  in 
that.  But  with  her  cousin  Raphael  wistful  to  marry 
her  for  a  rich  heiress  whose  property  he  has  squandered 
— that  is  more  than  I  reckoned  with !" 

"There  is  no  going  back  when  a  woman  leads  the 
way,"  slowly  enunciated  the  Alcalde. 

"Who  spoke  of  going  back?"  cried  the  Professor  in- 
dignantly. "I  have  taken  the  risk  of  bringing  the  maid 
here,  thinking  to  place  her  in  safety  with  my  mother. 
Neither  she  nor  I  will  fail.  We  will  keep  her  with  our 
lives — aye,  and  so  will  you,  brothers  !" 

"So  we  will !"  said  Jean-Marie  and  Don  Jordy  together, 
"of  course !" 

"Pity  it  is  for  another  man!"  said  the  lawyer  grimly 
— "that  is,  if  what  Anatole  says  be  true." 

"It  is  too  true !"  said  the  Professor  bravely — "true  and 
natural  and  right  that  the  young  should  seek  the  young 
and  love  the  young  and  cleave  to  the  young !" 

"That,  at  least,  is  comforting  for  those  who  (like  my- 
self) are  still  young !"  said  Don  Jordy,  with  some  mock- 


The  White  Plume  197 

ery  in  his  tone;  "for  you  and  the  Alcalde  there,  the 
comfort  is  somewhat  chilly !" 

And  neither  of  his  seniors  could  find  it  in  their  hearts 
to  contradict  Don  Jordy. 

The  brothers  conferred  long  together,  and  at  last  found 
nothing  better  than  that  Claire  should  remain  at  La 
Masane  with  their  mother,  while  she  should  be  solemnly 
charged  not  to  leave  the  house  except  in  company  with 
one  of  the  three  brothers.  They  would  mount  guard  one 
by  one,  and  even  the  master  of  the  Castle  of  Collioure 
would  hardly  venture  to  violate  the  sanctuary  of  the  Mas 
of  La  Masane. 

Curiously  enough,  in  their  arrangements  none  of  them 
thought  once  of  Jean-aux-Choux.  Yet,  had  they  but 
looked  out  of  the  door,  they  would  have  seen  Jean 
wrapped  in  his  rough  shepherd's  cloak,  leaning  his  chin 
on  his  five-foot  staff,  his  great  wolf-hound  at  attention, 
his  flock  clumped  about  his  feet,  but  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  lonely  Mas  where,  in  the  twilight,  these  three  brothers 
sat  and  discussed  with  knotted  brows  concerning  the  fate 
of  Claire  Agnew. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
SECOND  COUNCIL  OF  WAR 

"You  are  late,  Count  Raphael,"  said  a  tall  lady,  presid- 
ing over  a  little  gathering  of  men  and  women  in  the 
upper  hall  of  the  Castle  of  Collioure.  The  Duchess  of 
Err  was  a  Spanish  lady  who  had  dwelt  some  time  at  the 
Court  of  Paris  in  the  time  of  Francis  II.  and  Mary  of 
Scotland.  And  ever  since  she  had  posed  as  one  who 
could  innovate  if  she  would,  so  that  the  ancient  customs 
of  Spain  would  not  know  themselves  again  when  she 
had  done  with  them.  As,  however,  she  took  good  care  to 
keep  this  carefully  from  King  Philip's  ears,  nothing  very 
remarkable  came  of  it. 

But,  nevertheless,  the  Duchess  of  Err  had  a  certain  re- 
pute for  originality  and  daring,  which  served  her  as  well 
then  as  at  any  other  period  of  the  world's  history.  Her 
husband  accompanied  her,  but  as  that  diplomatist  "abode 
in  his  breaches"  and  confined  his  intercourse  with  those 
around  to  asking  the  major-domo  daily  what  there  was 
for  dinner,  his  influence  on  his  wife  was  not  great.  His 
trouble  was  spoken  of,  leniently,  as  "a  touch  of  the  sun." 

"Our  host  comes  from  a  rendezvous,  doubtless,"  put  in 
the  Countess  Livia,  with  a  bitter  intention,  glancing, 
as  she  did  so,  at  a  fair-haired  girl  with  wide-open  eyes 
who  sat  listless  and  very  quiet  at  the  seaward  window. 
A  priest,  playing  chess  with  a  robust,  country-faced  nmn, 
looked  up  quickly  from  his  ivory  picees.  But  the  girl 
said  nothing,  and  Raphael  Llorient  was  left  to  answer 
for  himself. 


The  White  Plume  199 

This  he  did  by  turning  towards  her  who  had  not  spoken, 
or  even  looked  in  his  direction. 

"Mademoiselle  Valentine,"  he  said,  "will  you  not  defend 
a  poor  man  who,  having  but  one  vineyard,  must  needs 
sometimes  trim  and  graft  with  his  own  hands?" 

Momentarily  the  girl  rested  her  great  eyes,  of  the 
greenish  amber  of  pressed  clover  honey,  full  upon 
him.  Her  face  was  faintly  flushed  like  the  blonde  of 
meadow-sweet,  but  quite  without  pink  in  the  cheeks. 
Her  lips,  however,  were  full,  red,  and  more  than  a  little 
scornful. 

"The  Lord  of  Collioure  can  surely  please  himself  as 
to  his  comings  and  goings,"  she  said;  "for  the  rest,  is 
not  my  ghostly  uncle  here  to  confess  him,  if  such  be  his 
need?" 

"Valentine  la  Nina,"  cried  the  Duchess,  "is  there  noth- 
ing in  the  world  that  will  make  you  curious?  Only 
twenty-five,  and  reputed  the  fairest  woman  in  Europe, 
yet  you  have  outlived  the  sin  of  Eve,  your  mother!  It 
is  an  insult  against  the  laws  of  your  sex.  What  shall  we 
do  to  her?" 

"Make  her  confess  to  her  uncle,"  said  the  Countess 
Livia,  who  also  never  could  forgive  in  any  woman  the 
offence-capital  of  beauty. 

"My  niece  Valentine  has  her  own  spiritual  adviser,"  said 
the  priest,  looking  up  from  his  game,  with  a  smile  which 
had  enough  of  curiosity  in  it  to  make  up  for  his  niece's 
lack  of  it.  "A  Pope  may,  if  he  will,  confess  his  nephews, 
but  a  poor  Brother  of  the  Society  had  better  confide 
the  cure  of  his  relatives'  souls  to  the  nearest  village 
priest.  Otherwise  he  might  be  suspected  of  conspiring 
against  the  good  of  the  state.  The  regular  clergy  may 
steal  horses,  while  a  Jesuit  may  not  even  look  over  the 
wall!" 


200  The  White  Plume 

The  ladies  rose  to  say  good-night.  Like  a  careful 
host,  Raphael  took  from  the  table  a  tall  candelabra  of 
two  brancheSj  in  order  to  conduct  them  severally  to  the 
doors  of  their  apartments.  The  Duchess  of  Err  conveyed 
away  her  husband  with  her,  holding  up  her  long  silken 
train  with  one  hand  and  giving  the  ex-diplomat  a  push 
on  before  her  with  the  other  as  often  as  he  needed  it. 
The  Duke  had  forgotten  that  he  had  once  already  par- 
taken of  supper,  and  craved  another.  He  even  shed  a 
few  tears.  Yet  he  had  his  good  points.  His  emotion 
showed  a  sympathetic  nature,  and  besides,  the  ladies 
were  there  under  his  escort  and  protection.  The  Duchess 
said  so,  so  it  must  be  true.  Meantime,  however,  she 
propelled  him  to  bed. 

The  Countess  Livia  gave  Raphael  her  hand  to  kiss,  say- 
ing at  the  same  time,  "To-morrow  I  will  find  your  village 
maid  for  you !" 

On  the  way  the  Duchess  divided  her  attention  between 
making  sure  that  her  husband  took  the  right  turning  in 
the  long  corridors  of  the  Castle  of  Collioure,  and  re- 
proaching Raphael  for  not  building  a  new  and  elegant 
chateau  "after  the  manner  of  Chenancieux  or  Cour 
Chevernay — light,  dainty,  fit  for  a  lady's  jewel  case." 

At  this  Raphael  laughed,  and,  holding  the  candelabra 
high  in  his  hand,  begged  them  to  look  up  and  mark 
upon  the  lintels  of  the  narrow  windows  the  splintering 
of  the  cannon  shots  and  the  grooves  made  by  the  inrush 
of  the  arbalast  bolts. 

"My  Lady  Duchess,"  he  answered,  "I  would  be  glad 
to  do  your  bidding — first,  if  I  had  the  security ;  second, 
if  I  had  the  river;  third,  if  I  had  the  money.  But  I 
have  no  money,  alas,  save  what  I  gather  hardly  enough 
from  my  vines  and  the  flocks  on  the  hillside  yonder  (see 
that  faithful  man  guarding  my  interests — I  never  had  a 


The  White  Plume  201 

herder  like  him).  Besides  I  am  here  between  three  fires, 
or  it  may  be  four — our  good  King  Philip,  the  step- 
father of  his  people,  the  King  of  France,  the  Bearnais, 
and,  maybe  before  long,  the  Holy  League,  also.  Bullets 
may  soon  be  whistling  again  at  Collioure,  as  they  have 
whistled  before,  and  I  would  rather  that  they  encountered 
these  ten-foot  walls,  and  mortar  of  excellent  shell-lime, 
than  the  moulded  sugar  and  plaster  of  these  ladies'  toys 
along  the  Loire!" 

"Ah,  you  will  not  move  with  the  times !"  cried  the 
Duchess,  propelling  her  husband  severely  into  his  dress- 
ing-room to  make  sure  that  he,  at  least,  moved  with  the 
times — a  little  faster  even.  "If  you  had  been  as  long  in 
France  as  I — well,  but  there — I  forgive  you.  You  are  a 
good  Catholic,  and  a  subject  of  King  Philip.  Therefore 
you  cannot  help  it,  and  our  lord  the  King  sees  to  it  that 
you  have  something  else  to  do  with  your  money  than 
to  build  castles  wherein  to  entertain  ladies.  Sea-castles 
for  the  English  robber  dogs  to  batter  with  shot,  and 
land-castles  to  hold  down  the  Holland  frontier,  are  much 
more  to  his  liking  1" 

At  this  point  the  Duke  of  Err  created  a  diversion  by 
turning  in  his  tracks  at  the  sight  of  the  dark  sleeping- 
chamber,  through  the  open  window  of  which  came  the 
light  sap  and  clatter  of  the  sea  on  the  beach  far  below. 

"My  supper — my  supper  1"  he  muttered;  "I  want  to 
go  to  the  supper-room !" 

The  Duchess  was  not  a  lady  of  lengthy  patience,  and 
domestic  manners  were  simple  in  those  days.  She  merely 
gave  the  ex-diplomatist  a  sound  box  on  the  ear,  and  bade 
him  get  into  bed  at  once. 

"It  takes  all  his  family  just  like  that  before  the  age 
of  fifty,"  she  said;  "I  am  a  woman  much  to  be  pitied, 
with  such  a  babe  on  my  hands.  Good-night,  Don 


202  The  White  Plume 

Raphael ;  you  must  build  me  that  chateau  to  comfort  me 
as  soon  as  the  wars  are  over " 

"When  God  wills,  and  the  purse  fills!"  said  the  Lord 
of  Collioure,  bowing  to  the  ground. 

A  little  farther  along  the  corridor  they  came  to  the 
chambers  of  the  Countess  Livia  and  the  niece  of  the 
Jesuit  doctor.  The  Countess,  with  her  eyes  on  her  com- 
panion, gave  Raphael  her  fingers  to  kiss,  but  Valentine 
la  Nina  swept  past  both  with  the  slightest  bow. 

"No  man  can  serve  two  masters,"  said  the  Countess, 
smiling  after  her  with  meaning ;  "you  must  give  up  your 
shepherdess !" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Raphael  demanded,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"My  brother  Paul  will  tell  you  to-morrow,  when  he 
comes  back  from  Perpignan.  He,  too,  was  on  the  hill- 
side to-day — near  to  the  valley " 

She  paused  long  enough  to  give  him  time  to  ask  the 
question. 

"What  valley?"  said  Raphael,  in  complete  apparent 
forgetfulness. 

"The  Valley  of  the  Consolation !  An  excellent  name !" 
answered  the  Countess  Livia,  with  a  low  laugh  of  malice. 

She  turned  and  went  within.  She  found  Valentine  la 
Nina  standing  by  the  open  window  looking  out  upon  the 
sea.  Her  large,  amber-coloured  eyes  were  now  black 
and  mysterious.  She  did  not  show  the  least  trace  of  emo- 
tion. She  was  as  one  walking  in  a  dream,  or  perhaps, 
rather,  like  one  upheld  by  a  will  not  her  own. 

The  Countess  Livia  looked  at  the  girl  awhile,  and  then, 
with  a  vexed  stamp  of  her  foot,  she  pulled  Valentine 
round  so  that  the  light  of  the  lamp  fell  on  her  face. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "was  there  ever  a  woman  like  you? 
As  the  Duchess  said,  you  care  for  nothing.  You 


The  White  Plume  203 

are  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world,  and  it  is  nothing 
to  you.  No  wonder  a  dairy-maid  can  supplant  you. 
Why,  if  I  had  a  tenth  of  your  beauty — I  would  have 
kings  and  emperors  at  my  feet !" 

Valentine  la  Nina  looked  at  her  without  smiling,  or 
the  least  show  of  feeling. 

"It  is  likely,"  she  said.  "You  are  free,  I  am  bound. 
When  I  receive  my  orders,  I  shall  obey  them." 

"You  are  a  strange  creature,"  cried  the  Countess. 
"Orders — who  is  to  command  you  ?  Bound — what  chains 
are  there  that  a  suitable  marriage  will  not  break?" 

"Those!"  said  Valentine  la  Nina,  opening  her  robe 
at  the  throat,  and  showing  to  the  astonished  eyes  of  the 
Countess  Livia  the  black  crucifix  and  the  hair  shirt  of 
discipline. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
THIRD    COUNCIL    OF    WAR 

RAPHAEL  had  not  been  long  in  his  bedroom  when  a  light 
knock  came  to  the  door.  He  looked  about  him  with  a 
startled  air,  as  if  there  might  be  something  to  be  con- 
cealed on  some  table  or  in  some  alcove.  All  seemed  in 
order  to  his  eye.  Reassured,  he  went  on  tiptoe  and 
opened  the  door  very  gently,  just  so  far  that  whoever 
stood  without  might  enter. 

"You?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

And  the  Jesuit  father  came  into  the  room,  softly  smil- 
ing at  the  young  man's  surprise. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  with  the  most  delicate  touch  of  rebuke 
in  his  tone,  "you  perhaps  expected  your  major-domo, 
your  steward.  I  forgot  that  you  were  a  bachelor  and 
must  attend  to  the  morrow's  provender,  otherwise  we 
should  all  starve." 

"Ah,  no,"  said  the  Master  of  Collioure,  "I  have  a  good 
housekeeper,  in  addition  to  Sebastian  Tet,  my  major- 
domo.  I  can  sleep  on  both  ears  and  know  that  my  guests 
will  not  go  dinnerless  to-morrow.  We  are  poor,  but  there 
is  always  soup  in  the  cabbage  garden,  fish  in  the  sea,  mut- 
ton on  the  hills,  and  wine  everywhere  at  Collioure — 
good  and  strong,  the  wine  of  Roussillon !" 

"Faith,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "but  for  the  Order,  a  man 
might  do  worse  than  abide  here.  'Tis  Egypt  and  its 
fleshpots !  No  wonder  you  are  so  fond  of  it.  And" 
(here  he  paused  a  little  to  give  weight  to  his  words) 
"Paul  Morella  told  me  to-day  that  there  is  even  a  Cleo- 


The  White  Plume  205 

patra  of  the  Heavy  Locks  up  there  among  the  flocks 
of  Goshen!  You  make  jour  land  of  bondage  complete 
indeed!" 

The  dark  face  of  Raphael  grew  livid  and  unlovely,  as 
the  eyes  of  the  smiling  priest  rested  shrewdly  upon  him. 

"Paul  Morella  meddles  with  what  does  not  concern  him," 
he  answered  brusquely;  "that  is  no  safe  business  in 
Roussillon,  as  he  will  find — especially  when  one  has  a 
sister  of  an  unguarded  tongue.  I  have  seen  a  knife- 
point look  out  at  the  other  side  of  a  man  for  less  1" 

Father  Mariana  raised  his  plump  hands  in  deprecia- 
tion. 

"No,  no,"  he  said.  "  'Quoniam  Deus  mortem  non  fecit, 
nee  l&tatur  in  perditione  vivorum!'  Neither  must  you, 
my  son,  and  a  son  of  Holy  Church.  Besides,  there  are 
always  other  ways.  I  am  writing  a  book  to  show  how 
the  Church  can  best  be  served  with  the  guile  of  the 
serpent,  yet  with  the  harmlessness  of  the  dove." 

The  mood  of  the  young  man  changed  as  he  listened,  as 
it  always  did  with  Father  Mariana  of  Toledo. 

"I  spoke  in  haste,"  he  said.  "I  wish  no  ill  to  Paul  Mo- 
rella, nor  to  his  sister,  the  Countess  Livia — only  I  would 
their  tongues  were  stiller !" 

The  Jesuit  patted  Raphael's  arm  gently  and  soothingly. 

"Be  content,"  he  murmured;  "the  Countess  Livia  is 
neither  your  sister  nor  your  wife.  'As  the  climbing  up 
of  a  sandy  way  is  to  the  feet  of  the  aged,  so  is  a  wife 
full  of  words  to  a  quiet  man.'  So  it  is  written,  and  all 
marriage  is  but  a  commentary  upon  that  text." 

"Hum,  it  may  be,  my  father,"  said  Raphael,  "and  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  am  tempted  to  try.  In  which  matter  I 
shall  be  glad  to  have  your  advice,  my  father  Mariana, 
since  you  have  come  all  the  way  from  your  hermitage 
at  Toledo  to  visit  your  old  pupil " 


206  The  White  Plume 

"And  also  to  serve  the  Order  and  Holy  Church,"  add- 
ed the  Jesuit  gravely,  like  a  preceptor  making  a  neces- 
sary correction  in  an  exercise.  "Is  it  as  spiritual  direc- 
tor or  as  friend  that  you  desire  my  counsel?" 

"As  a  man  of  the  world,  rather,"  said  Raphael,  sitting 
down  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  nursing  his  knee  be- 
tween his  joined  fingers.  The  Jesuit  had  already  in- 
stalled himself  in  the  great  tapestried  armchair,  and 
put  his  small,  neatly  shod  feet  close  together  on  the 
footstool. 

"Alas,  my  son,"  said  the  priest,  when  at  last  he  was 
comfortable,  "I  have  long  ago  lost  all  title  to  that  name. 
And  yet,  I  do  not  know;  I  have  been  chased  from  most 
countries,  and  openly  condemned  by  the  General  of  my 
own  Order.  Yet  I  serve  in  faith " 

"Oh,"  said  Raphael,  smiling,  "all  the  world  knows 
that  the  Order  approves  your  doings.  The  General  only 
condemns  your  words  for  the  benefit  of  the  vulgar  and 
anointed  kings.  If  I  make  not  too  bold,  it  seems  to  me 
that  there  is  a  certain  king  in  France — I  say  not  of 
France — who  may  well  be  interested  in  your  presence 
so  near  his  territories!  If  I  were  he,  I  should  say  my 
prayers !" 

"If  you  speak  of  the  Bearnais,  you  are  mistaken," 
said  Mariana ;  "he,  at  least,  is  an  open  enemy,  and,  who 
knows,  may  one  day  be  reconciled,  being  at  heart  a 
good,  fightful,  eat-drink-and-be-merry  pagan — indeed, 
Raphael  Llorient  of  Collioure,  very  much  of  your  own 
religion,  save  that  where  he  would  wield  a  battle-axe 
you  would  drive  a  dagger,  save  that  he  makes  love  where 
you  would  make  money,  and  he  trolls  a  catch  where  you 
whisper  a  pass-word.  But  as  to  the  advice — well,  put 
your  case.  The  night  is  young  before  us,  and  this  wine 
of  Burgundy,  like  myself — old,  old,  old !" 


The  White  Plume  207 

"My  father,"  said  Raphael,  "just  now  you  spoke  of 
money.  It  is  true  I  seek  it — but  to  spend,  not  to  hoard. 
Too  often  I  hazard  it  on  the  turn  of  a  dice-cube.  I  lose 
it.  Money  will  not  stay  with  me,  neither  the  golden 
discs  nor  the  value  of  them.  This  trick  of  gaming  I 
have  inherited  from  my  grandfather.  Only  he  had  the 
good  sense  to  die  before  he  had  spent  all  his  heritance. 
His  sons,  being  given  rather  to  sword-play  and  the  war- 
game,  died  before  him.  To  all  appearances  I  was  the  sole 
heir,  and  so  for  long  I  considered  myself.  But  when  my 
grandfather's  will  was  found,  half  only  was  left  to  me — 
the  other  half  to  his  only  daughter  Colette  and  to  her 
children.  The  will  is  in  the  provincial  archives  at  Per- 
pignan.  He  had  placed  it  there  himself.  A  copy  is  in 
the  registry  of  the  bishop  at  Elne.  Yet  another  copy 
was  sent  to  the  Huguenot  whom  my  aunt  Colette 
married." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Jesuit,  narrowing  his  eyes  in  deep 
thought,  "and  this  heretic — has  he  never  claimed  the 
inheritance  ?" 

"He  is  dead,  they  say — was  killed  in  Paris,  on  the 
Day  of  the  Barricades.  Yet  he  received  the  paper,  and 
now  his  daughter  has  come  to  Collioure,  and  is  abiding 
at  the  house  of  La  Masane  with  the  family  there — 
emigrants  from  Provence — one  of  whom,  by  some  trick 
of  cunning  or  aptitude  for  flattery,  has  become  a  Profes- 
sor at  the  Sorbonne — Doctor  Anatole  Long,  he  styles 
himself." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Jesuit,  in  a  changed,  caressing  voice, 
"a  learned  man ;  he  has  written  well  upon  the  eloquence 
of  Greece  and  Rome  as  applied  to  the  purposes  of  the 
Church.  I  myself  have  ordered  a  translation  of  his 
books  to  be  made  for  the  use  of  our  schools  at  Toledo. 
And  yet — I  heard  something  concerning  him  read  from 


208  The  White  Plume 

the  Gazette  of  the  Order  at  our  last  council  meeting. 
Had  he  not  to  flee  because  he  alone  of  the  Senatus  with- 
stood the  Holy  League?" 

Raphael  nodded  slightly.  The  quarrels  of  philosophers 
were  nothing  to  him. 

"Aye,  and  brought  my  cousin  Claire  with  him — Co- 
lette's daughter,  as  I  suppose — to  claim  the  property — 
the  property  which  I  have  no  longer — which  is  blown 
wantonly  upon  every  wind,  rattled  in  other  men's  pockets, 
paid  out  for  laces  and  silks  which  I  never  wore " 

"You  have  been  a  foolish  lad,"  said  the  Jesuit;  "but 
one  day,  when  you  have  spent  all,  you  will  make  a  very 
good  prodigal  son  to  the  Gesu.  Perhaps  the  hour  is  not 
far  distant.  What,  then,  is  your  intention?" 

"I  see  nothing  for  it  but  that  I  must  marry  the  girl," 
said  Raphael  Llorient;  "she  is  fair,  and  you — and  the 
King — must  help  me  to  a  dispensation.  Then  her  por- 
tion shall  be  her  dower,  and  there  is  only  her  husband  to 
account  to  for  it.  I  shall  be  that  husband." 

A  subtle  change  passed  over  the  Jesuit's  face  as  his 
pupil  was  speaking.  He  smiled. 

"Softly,  softly,"  he  murmured;  "to  eat  an  egg,  it  is 
not  necessary  to  cook  it  in  a  silver  vessel  over  a  fire  of 
sandalwood,  and  serve  it  upon  a  platter  of  gold.  It  tastes 
just  as  well  boiled  in  an  earthenware  dish  and  eaten  in 
the  fingers." 

"I  have  gone  too  far,"  said  Raphael ;  "I  cannot  stand 
upon  metaphors.  My  eggs  are  already  sucked.  I  have 
deceived  the  King,  paid  neither  duty  to  him  nor  tithes 
to  the  Church  upon  my  cousin's  portion.  I  must  marry 
or  burn !" 

"That  you  have  not  paid  your  tithes  to  the  Church 
is  grave,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "but  the  time  is  not  too 
late.  Perhaps  you  can  pay  in  service.  We  of  the  Society^ 


The  White  Plume  209 

need  the  willing  hand,  the  far-seeing  brain,  more  than 
coined  gold — though  that,  of  course,  we  must  have 
too." 

"The  King's  arm  is  long,"  said  Raphael,  "and  I  fear  he 
thinks  I  have  not  done  enough  for  his  Armada.  This 
news  would  end  me  if  it  were  to  come  to  his  ears." 

"I  judge  that  there  will  be  no  such  need,"  purred  the 
Jesuit.  "Is  this  cousin  of  yours  by  chance  a  heretic,  even 
as  was  her  father?" 

Raphael  started.  His  netted  fingers  let  go  his  knee, 
which  in  its  turn  slowly  relaxed  and  allowed  the  foot  to 
sink  to  the  ground,  as  through  a  dense  medium. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  my  father,"  he  said,  breath- 
ing deeply,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  priest's  mild  and  smiling 
face. 

"If  your  cousin  be  a  Protestant,  a  heretic,"  continued 
the  Jesuit,  "I  do  not  see  that  there  is  any  difficulty " 

"You  mean ?"  said  Raphael,  his  face  now  of  a 

livid  paleness. 

The  priest  beckoned  him  a  little  nearer,  placed  his 
lips,  still  smiling,  close  to  the  young  man's  ear,  and 
whispered  two  words. 

"No — no — no!"  gasped  Raphael,  starting  back,  "not 
that — anything  but  that!  I  cannot — I  will  not — any- 
thing but  that !" 

"Then  there  is,  I  fear  greatly,  no  other  way !" 

"None?" 

"Your  soul  is  the  Church's — your  body  the  King's," 
said  the  Jesuit ;  "take  care  that  you  offend  not  both. 
For  such  there  is  no  forgiveness,  even  in  the  grave. 
Besides,  you  could  never  get  a  dispensation  to  marry  a 
heretic.  Trust  me,  my  way  is  the  best." 

"She  would  return  to  the  Faith,"  said  Raphael,  who, 
though  a  man  of  no  half  measures  in  his  own  plottings, 


210  The  White  Plume 

yet  stood  aghast  and  horrified  at  what  the  smiling  priest 
proposed  to  him. 

"Never,"  said  Father  Mariana;  "I  know  the  breed — 
'proud  as  a  Scot,'  say  the  French,  your  friends,  who  know 
them  best.  And  in  nothing  prouder  nor  more  stubborn 
than  in  their  heresy  and  hatred  of  the  Wholesome  Dis- 
cipline of  the  Church." 

"I  cannot,"  said  Raphael ;  "after  all,  she  is  my  cousin 
— my  near  and  only  relative." 

"If  she  were  the  mother  who  bore  you,"  affirmed  the 
priest,  "your  duty  would  be  the  same.  And  moreover 
(though,  indeed,  it  becomes  not  me  to  press  upon  you 
that  which  should  be  your  first  happiness),  has  it  struck 
you  that  you  have  passed  your  word  to  the  Senorita 
Valentine,  my  niece ?" 

"The  Lady  Valentine  would  have  nothing  to  say  to 
me,"  cried  the  young  man  sharply ;  "I  wed  none  such !" 

"But  are  you  so  sure  of  your  Scottish  heretic?  As 
for  Valentine,  when  was  a  gallant  young  man  discouraged 
by  a  woman's  first  'No'?  You  have  much  to  learn, 
young  man ;  Valentine  la  Nina  has  been  well  taught. 
Fear  nothing.  Where  she  gives  her  hand,  her  heart  will 
go  with  it.  I  have  schooled  her  myself.  She  has  no 
will  but  that  of  the  Gesu — think  on  it,  my  son,  and 
deeply !" 

And  still  smiling  gently,  the  Jesuit  went  out,  leaving 
Raphael  to  meditations  singularly  unhappy,  even  for  a 
man  who  has  to  choose  between  the  gallows  and  marriage 
with  one  of  two  women,  neither  of  whom  he  loves. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 
THE  SHUT  HOUSE  IN  MONEY  STREET 

THERE  is  a  house  in  the  city  of  Perpignan,  in  the  street 
called  "of  the  money,"  where  on  a  time  strange  things 
were  done  and  still  stranger  planned.  It  is  the  ancient 
House  of  the  Holy  Office,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion. In  an  upper  room,  after  the  fatigues  of  the  day, 
three  priests  were  seated.  One  was  a  dark,  thin  man,  the 
type  of  Philip's  new  inquisitors,  a  Torquemada  reborn ; 
the  second  was  a  little  grey-haired  man,  with  watering 
reddish  eyes  and  a  small  mouth,  as  if  it  had  been  cut 
with  one  blow  of  a  chisel;  while  in  the  only  comfortable 
chair  lounged  a  certain  smiling  Jesuit  father,  who, 
though  under  the  open  censure  of  his  General,  was  yet 
the  most  powerful  man  in  all  their  terrible  Order — one 
Mariana,  historian,  pamphleteer,  disputant,  plotter,  in- 
quisitor, and  chief  firebrand  of  the  new  Society  which 
had  come  to  turn  the  world  upside  down. 

These  three  men  awaited  a  messenger  who  was  to  bring 
them  momentous  intelligence  from  a  city  far  away. 

Little  was  said,  though  it  was  supper-time,  and  wines 
and  meat  had  been  placed  on  the  table.  The  two  Fathers 
of  the  Holy  Office  ate  sparingly,  as  became  men  whose 
eyes  had  seen  their  fellows  endure  many  hours  of  tor- 
ment that  day,  in  order  that  their  hearts  and  minds  might 
be  purified  from  heresy,  and  their  money  chink  in  the 
coffers  of  Holy  Church.  Only  Mariana  ate  and  drank 
heartily.  For  was  it  not  his  business  to  go  about  the 
world  with  soft  compressive  palm  and  a  cheerful  smile 


212  The  White  Plume 

on  his  rosy  face,  a  complete  refutation  of  the  idea  tHat 
a  Jesuit  must  of  necessity  be  a  dark  and  cunning  plotter, 
or  an  inquisitor  merely  an  ecclesiastical  executioner? 

The  Chief  Surintendant  Teruel  was  a  grim  Aragonese, 
a  peasant  brought  up  hardly,  the  humanity  ground  out 
of  him  by  long  years  of  novitiate,  till  now  he  knew  no 
pity,  no  kindness,  no  faltering,  while  he  carried  out  the 
will  of  God  as  interpreted  to  him  by  his  hierarchical 
superiors. 

Little  Frey  Tullio,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  Neapolitan, 
who  had  been  sent  over  from  Rome  on  purpose  to  fa- 
miliarise himself  with  the  best  Spanish  methods.  For 
nowhere  did  the  Holy  Office  thrive  so  congenially  and 
root  itself  so  deeply  as  in  Catholic  Spain.  Frey  Tullio 
did  his  work  conscientiously,  but  without  the  stern  joy 
of  his  Aragonese  superior,  and  certainly  wholly  without 
the  supple,  subtle  wit  and  smiling  finesse  of  Mariana,  the 
famous  "outcast"  of  the  Company  of  the  Gesu. 

"A  man  is  waiting  below,"  said  a  black-robed  acolyte, 
who  had  handled  certain  confession-producing  ropes  and 
cords  that  day,  and  was  now  also  resting  from  his  labours. 
The  prisoners  who  had  been  saved  for  the  next  auto  da  fe 
(except  those  who,  being  delicate,  had  succumbed  to  the 
Lesser  and  Greater  Question)  rested  equally  from  theirs 
— in  the  cellars  below,  the  blood  stiffening  in  their  un- 
washed wounds,  and  their  rack-tormented  bones  setting 
into  place  a  little  so  as  to  be  ready  for  ten  of  the  clock  on 
the  morrow. 

"A  man  waiting  below  ?"  repeated  the  Chief  Inquisitor. 
"What  does  he  want?" 

"To  see  the  Fathers  of  the  Holy  Office,"  said  the  ser- 
vitor, wondering  if  he  had  sufficiently  wiped  the  wine  from 
his  mouth  ere  he  came  in — the  Surintendant  was  regard- 
ing him  so  sternly. 


The  White  Plume  213 

"He  looks  like  a  shepherd  of  the  hills,"  said  the  acolyte ; 
"indeed,  I  have  seen  him  before — at  Collioure.  He  is  a 
servant,  so  he  says,  of  Don  Raphael  Llorient !" 

"Ah,"  said  Mariana  quickly ;  "then  I  think  I  can  guess 
his  message.  I  have  already  spoken  of  it  with  Don 
Raphael." 

"Bid  three  stout  familiars  of  the  Office  stand  unseen  be- 
hind the  curtain  there,  weapons  in  hand,"  commanded 
Surintendant  Teruel ;  "then  show  the  man  up !" 

Jean-aux-Choux  entered,  long-haired,  wild-eyed,  his 
cloak  of  rough  frieze  falling  low  about  his  ankles,  and 
his  hand  upon  the  dagger-hilt  which  had  once  been  red 
with  the  blood  of  the  Guise. 

The  three  men  looked  silently  at  him,  with  that  chill, 
pitiless  gaze  which  made  no  difference  between  a  man 
asked  to  speak  his  message  and  him  who,  by  one  word 
out  of  his  own  mouth,  must  deliver  himself  to  torture 
and  to  death. 

"Stand !"  commanded  the  Chief  Inquisitor ;  "speak  your 
message  briefly,  and  if  all  be  well,  you  are  at  liberty  to 
return  as  you  came  1" 

The  threat  was  hardly  veiled,  but  Jean-aux-Choux  stood 
undaunted. 

"Death  is  my  familiar  friend,"  he  said  ;"I  am  not  afraid. 
God,  who  hath  oft  delivered  me  from  the  tooth  of  the 
lion  and  the  claw  of  the  bear,  can  deliver  me  also  from 
this  Philistine." 

The  two  judges  of  men's  souls  looked  at  each  other. 
This  was  perilously  like  fanaticism.  They  knew  well  how 
to  deal  with  that.  But  Mariana  only  laughed  and  tapped 
his  forehead  covertly  with  his  forefinger. 

"He  is  harmless,  but  mad,  this  fellow,"  he  murmured; 
"I  have  often  spoken  with  him  while  I  abode  at  the  house 
of  Don  Raphael  of  Collioure.  He  hath  had  in  his  youth 


214  The  White  Plume 

some  smattering  of  letters,  but  now  what  little  lear  he  had 
trots  out  all  skimble-skamble  in  his  head.  Yet,  failing 
our  young  Dominican  of  Sens — well,  we  might  go  farther 
and  fare  worse." 

Then  he  turned  to  Jean-aux-Choux. 

"Your  message,  shepherd?"  he  said.  "Fear  nothing. 
We  shall  not  harm  you." 

"Had  I  supposed  so,  you  would  not  have  found  me  here 
— out  of  the  mouth  of  the  lion,  and  out  of " 

"That  will  do,"  said  Mariana,  cutting  him  short; 
"whence  come  you?" 

"From  the  camp  of  two  kings,  a  great  and  a  little, 
a  true  and  a  false,  the  lion  and  the  dog " 

"Speak  plainly — we  have  little  time  to  waste !" 

"Plainly,  then,  I  have  seen  the  meeting  of  Henry  of 
Valois  and  Henry  of  Navarre!  They  fell  each  on  the 
other's  neck  and  kissed !" 

The  two  inquisitors  rose  to  their  feet.  For  the  first 
time  emotion  showed  on  their  faces.  The  chief,  tall, 
black,  sombre,  stood  and  threatened  Jean-aux-Choux  with 
comminatory  forefinger. 

"If  you  speak  lies,  beware !" 

The  little  Italian,  formerly  so  grey  and  still,  nothing 
stirring  about  him  save  the  restless,  beady  eyes  common 
to  all  Neapolitans,  stood  up  and  vociferated. 

"It  is  an  open  defiance  of  our  Holy  Father !"  he  cried ; 
"a  shame  of  shames — the  Valois  shall  be  accursed!  He 
has  delivered  his  realm  to  the  Huguenot.  He  shall  be 
burnt  alive,  and  I — I  would  refuse  him  the  viaticum!" 

"He  may  not  have  time  even  for  that!"  said  Mariama 
softly — "that  is,  when  his  day  comes.  But  haste  you, 
man,  tell  us  what  befell — where,  and  how." 

"On  Sunday  last,"  began  Jean-aux-Choux,  looking  his 
three  inquisitors  in  the  face  with  the  utmost  calm,  "I 


The  White  Plume  215 

was,  as  Father  Mariana  knows,  in  a  certain  place  upon 
the  affairs  of  my  master. 

"It  was  in  a  park  near  a  great  city  of  many  towers. 
A  river  ran  near  by  and  a  bridge  spanned  it.  At  the 
bridge-head  were  three  great  nobles — dukes  and  peers  of 
France,  so  they  said.  Many  people  were  in  the  park  and 
about  the  palace  which  stood  within  it.  There  seemed 
no  fear.  The  place  was  open  to  all.  About  a  chapel 
door  they  cried  'God  save  the  King !'  For  within  a  man, 
splendidly  arrayed,  was  hearing  mass — I  saw  him  enter." 

The  inquisitors  looked  at  one  another,  nodding  expres- 
sively. 

"But  I  cared  not  for  that.  I  was  at  the  bridge-head,  and 
almost  at  my  elbow  the  three  nobles  conferred  one  with  the 
other,  doubtful  if  he  for  whom  they  waited  would  come. 

"  'I  should  not,  if  I  were  he,'  said  one  of  them ;  smy 
father  did  the  like,  and  died!  Only  he  had  a  written 
promise.' ' 

"That  was  Chatillon,  Coligny's  son,  I  warrant,"  said 
Mariana,  who  seemed  to  know  everything. 

"And  another  said,  'He  has  my  word — he  will  believe 
that,  though  he  doubts  that  of  the  King !'  " 

"Epernon,  for  a  wager!"  cried  the  Jesuit,  clapping 
his  hands ;  "the^e  spoke  the  man !  And  the  third,  what 
said  he?" 

"Oh,  he — no  great  matter,"  answered  Jean-aux-Choux, 
gently  stroking  his  brow,  as  if  to  recall  a  matter  long 
past.  "Ah,  I  do  remember — he  only  caused  great  swell- 
ing words  to  come  from  his  mouth,  and  rattled  his 
sword  in  his  scabbard,  declaring  that  if  there  was  any 
treachery  he  would  thrust  the  traitor  through  and 
through  with  'Monsieur  la  Chose'  (so  he  named  his 
sword),  which  he  declared  to  be  the  peer  and  overlord  of 
any  king  in  Christendie !" 


216  The  White  Plume 

"That  would  be  the  Marshal  d'Aumont,"  said  Mariana, 
after  a  pause.  "Well,  and  so  these  three  waited  there,  on 
the  bridge,  did  they  ?" 

"Ay,  I  warrant.  I  was  at  their  elbow,  as  I  say,"  quoth 
Jean-aux-Choux,  "on  the  bridge  called  the  'Pont  de  la 
Motte.'  And  presently  there  came  in  sight  a  cloud  of 
dust,  and  out  of  the  cloud  galloping  horses,  with  one 
that  rode  in  front.  And  there  were  spear-heads  that 
glinted,  and  musket -barrels,  and  swords  with  dinted  scab- 
bards. And  the  armour  of  these  men  was  all  tashed,  and 
their  helms  like  to  a  piece  of  lead  that  one  has  smitten 
with  a  hammer  long  and  long." 

"Battered  armour  is  the  worn  breviary  of  the  soldier !" 
commented  Mariana.  "Had  these  horsemen  white  scarves 
belting  them?" 

"Each  man  of  them !"  Jean-aux-Choux  answered.  "But 
even  he  that  rode  at  the  head  had  his  armour  (so  much 
of  it  as  he  wore)  in  a  like  state ;  but  whereas  all  the  others 
rode  with  plain  steel  helms,  there  was  a  white  plume  in 
his.  Those  who  stood  near  called  it  his  panache,  and 
said  it  was  miracle-working.  Also  he  wore  a  cloak,  like 
that  of  a  night-sentinel,  but  underneath,  his  doubtlet  and 
hose  were  of  olive-green  velvet.  He  was  of  a  hearty 
countenance,  robust  of  body,  and  roo*e  gallantly,  with  his 
head  thrown  back,  laughing  at  little  things  by  the  way 
— as  when  a  court  page-boy,  all  in  cloth  of  gold,  fell 
off  the  tree  on  which  he  had  climbed  to  see  the  show,  and 
had  to  be  pulled  out  of  the  river,  dripping  and  weeping, 
with  a  countryman's  rake  all  tangled  in  the  hinder 
breadths  of  his  raiment." 

"The  Bearnais !  To  a  hair !"  cried  the  Jesuit.  "Ah, 
what  a  man !  What  a  man — if  only  he  were  on  the  side 
of  Holy  Church " 

"He  is  a  heretic  of  heretics,"  said  the  S  rintendant 


The  White  Plume  217 

Teruel,  "and  deserves  only  the  flames  ana  the  yellow 
robe!" 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Mariana,  with  a  certain  contempt 
for  such  intolerance  of  idea ;  "you  would  have  found  him 
an  equally  good  man  in  your  father's  wheat-field,  and  I, 
at  the  King's  council.  One  day  he  will  give  our  Philip 
tit-f  or-tat — that  is,  if  he  live  so  long !" 

"Which  God  forbid !"  said  the  inquisitor. 

"Amen !"  assented  Frey  Tullio. 

"Well,"  smiled  Mariana,  "there  is  no  pleasing  you. 
For  me,  there  are  many  sorts  of  gallant  men,  but  with 
you,  a  man  must  either  swallow  all  the  Council  of  Trent, 
or  be  food  for  flames." 

The  inquisitors  were  silent.  Discussion  was  not  their 
business.  They  worked  honestly  from  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing till  five  in  the  afternoon.  Therefore,  they  deserved 
their  rest,  and  if  Mariana  persisted  in  talking  they 
would  not  get  it.  Still,  they  were  eager  to  hear  what  the 
servant  of  Raphael  Llorient  had  to  say. 

Mariana  made  Jean  a  signal  to  go  on  with  his  tale. 
He  continued. 

"So  being  used  to  run  on  the  mountains,  I  outstripped 
the  crowd  and  came  to  the  door  of  the  chapel  where  the 
Other  King,  he  in  the  cloak  of  blue  and  gold,  was  at  his 
prayers.  The  crowd  pressed  and  thronged — all  looking 
the  other  way. 

"And  I  waited.  But  not  long.  From  very  far  away 
there  came  a  crying  of  many  people — a  great  soughing 
whisper  first,  then  a  sound  like  the  strength  of  the  wind 
among  high  trees,  and  at  last,  loud  as  the  roar  of  many 
waters— 'The  White  Plume !  The  White  Plume !  Na- 
varre !  Navarre !' 

"Then  the  Other  King,  whom  no  one  cheered  greatly 
nor  took  much  heed  of,  came  out  from  his  mass  and 


218  The  Wliite  Plume 

strove  to  meet  the  king  of  the  brisk  and  smiling  counte- 
nance. But  for  a  long  time  they  could  not,  for  the 
crowd  broke  in  and  pressed  them  so  tight  that  during  a 
good  quarter  of  an  hour  these  two  Kings,  the  White 
Plume,  and  the  Man-all-covered-with-Lilies,  stood  within 
half-a-dozen  paces  of  each  other,  unable  to  embrace  or 
even  to  touch  hands.  Whereat  the  White  Plume  laughed 
and  jested  with  those  about,  bidding  them  remember 
that  he  had  come  without  his  breakfast,  and  such-like. 
But  the  Man-with-the-Lilies  was  sullen  and  angry  with 
the  concourse." 

"Ah,  for  a  couple  of  good  disciplined  Leaguers  with 
long  knives !"  muttered  the  Chief  of  the  Inquisitors  re- 
gretfully. 

"And  then,"  continued  Jean-aux-Choux,  "the  angry 
Soldier-Man,  who  had  stood  on  the  bridge  with  sword 
and  baton,  thrust  back  the  people,  speaking  many  words 
hotly,  which  are  not  fit  that  I  should  repeat  in  your 
reverend  ears.  So  finally  the  two  Kings  met  and  em- 
braced, and  the  people  shouted,  so  that  none  might  know 
what  his  neighbour  said.  And  presently  I  saw  these  two 
walk  arm-in-arm  through  the  press,  and  so  up  into 
the  Chateau,  out  of  my  sight.  They  abode  there  long 
time  talking,  and  then  after  eating  they  came  out. 
For  it  was  time  that  the  King-covered-with-Lilies 
should  go  back  to  his  chapel,  being  a  man  apparently 
very  devout." 

The  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  two  inquisitors  was 
dreadful  to  behold  in  its  contempt  and  hate.  But  Mari- 
ana laughed. 

"So  he  came  out  again,  and  the  King  with  the  White 
Plume  still  with  him.  Only  he  of  the  Plume  entered  not 
in  to  the  chapel,  but  stayed  without,  playing  at  tennis 
with  the  strongest  and  bravest  youths  of  the  court,  and 


The  White  Plume  219 

laughing  when  they  beat  him,  or  when  the  ball  took  him 
in  his  face. 

"And  all  the  while  the  crowd  cried,  'Long  live  the 
White  Plume!  Long  live  Navarre!'  And  sometimes 
from  the  back,  one  or  two  would  raise  a  feeble  cry,  'Long 
live  France !  Long  live  Henry  of  Valois !' '! 

The  Chief  Inquisitor  brought  down  his  fist  on  the 
table  with  a  crash,  so  that  the  wine-bottles  tottered  and 
a  glass  smashed. 

But  he  shall  not — by  the  crucifix,  he  shall  not!"  he 
hissed,  chill-white  with  anger.  "He  shall  die — if  there 
be  poison  in  Italy,  steel  in  France,  or " 

"Money  in  Spain!"  said  Mariana  calmly,  putting  his 
hand  on  the  arm  of  his  coadjutor.  "Well,  there  is  not 
much — but  this  is  the  Street  of  the  Money — and  I  judge 
we  shall  find  enough  for  that !" 


CHAPTER  XXX 
JEAN-AUX-CHOUX    TAKES    HIS    WAGES 

No  sooner  had  Jean-aux-Choux  departed  from  the  ter- 
rible house  in  the  Street  of  the  Money  at  Perpignan,  in 
which  he  had  found  the  three  inquisitors  seated,  than 
Mariana,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  drew  from  his  breast  a 
document  on  cream-coloured  vellum. 

Before  reading  it  he  looked  at  the  other  two,  and 
especially  at  Frey  Tullio  the  Neapolitan. 

"We  are  all  good  Spaniards,"  he  was  about  to  begin. 
But  remembering  in  time  the  birthplace  of  the  junior 
inquisitor,  he  altered  his  sentence  into,  "We  are  all  good 
subjects  of  King  Philip?" 

Surintendant  Teruel  and  Frey  Tullio  bowed  their  heads. 
They  wondered  what  was  coming,  and  Tullio  was  grow- 
ing not  a  little  sleepy.  Even  inquisitors  must  sleep.  A 
pulley-wheel  creaked  overhead  uneasily.  Down  in  the 
Place  of  Pain  the  familiars  were  trying  the  ropes  for  the 
morrow.  There  was  one  that  had  not  acted  satisfactorily 
in  the  case  of  that  Valencian  Jew  in  the  afternoon.  They 
had  been  ordered  to  mend  it.  King  Philip  did  not  ap- 
prove of  paying  for  new  ropes  too  often.  Besides,  the 
old  were  better.  They  did  not  stretch  so  much.  Blood 
and  tears  had  dropped  upon  them. 

So  ever  and  anon  the  pulley  creaked  complainingly 
between  two  rafters,  in  the  pauses  of  the  Jesuit's  soft 
voice,  as  he  read  the  Pope's  condemnation  of  King  Henry 
III.  of  France  (called  of  Valois) — excommunicated,  out- 
casted,  delivered  to  Satan  that  he  might  learn  not  to 


The  White  Plume  221 

offend — for  the  sin  of  alliance  with  the  heretic,  for  the 
sin  of  schism  and  witchcraft — "ordered  to  be  read  from 
the  chair  of  our  cathedral-church  of  Meaux,  and  of  all 
others  occupied  by  faithful  bishops " 

The  face  of  the  peasant-ecclesiastic  Teruel  lighted 
with  a  fierce  j  oy  as  he  listened. 

"We  shall  yet  be  able  to  send  the  Valois  before  our 
tribunals.  The  Holy  Office  shall  be  set  up  in  France. 
At  last  the  Edicts  of  Trent  shall  be  obeyed.  What 
glory! — what  joy! — to  judge  a  King  of  France,  and 
send  him  to  the  stake  as  a  heretic,  a  schismatic,  a  hater 
of  Holy  Church " 

"Softly — softly,  Brother  Teruel,"  said  Mariana,  smil- 
ing fixedly.  "France  is  not  our  happy  Spain.  The 
people  there  are  not  accustomed  to  fires  in  the  market- 
places and  the  smell  of  burned  sacrifice — to  the  sight  of 
their  parents  and  children  being  fagoted  for  the  glory 
of  God.  See  what  happened  in  England  a  few  years  ago, 
when  our  Philip's  wife  Mary,  Queen  of  that  country, 
tried  to  introduce  a  little — oh,  such  a  very  little — of  her 
husband's  methods." 

"Here  we  have  no  difficulty,"  said  Teruel,  from  his 
peasant-bigot's  point  of  view.  "It  is  God's  good  method 
with  the  world  to  extirpate  the  heretic !" 

But  the  Jesuit  answered  him  truly. 

"Make  no  mistake,"  he  said,  tapping  the  Papal  Bull 
with  a  plump  forefingers.  "You  succeed  here  in  Spain,  my 
country  and  yours,  because  the  Spaniard,  ninety-nine  out 
of  a  hundred,  is  wishful  that  you  should  succeed.  Our 
good  John  Spaniard  hates  Jews — he  despises  heretics. 
To  him  they  are  a  foolish  remnant.  They  prosper 
abominably;  they  are  patient,  unwarlike,  easily  plun- 
dered. Yet  they  take  it  upon  themselves  to  offend  the  eye 
by  their  unnecessary  industry.  A  striped  blanket  in  the 


222  The  White  Plume 

shade,  a  little  wine,  a  little  gossip — and  in  these  later 
times,  since  blessed  Ferdinand,  a  good  rollicking  auto 
da  fe  once  a  week.  These  suffice  him  when  the  King  does 
not  call  our  Spaniard  to  war.  They  are  the  very  'bread- 
and-bull-fights'  for  which  he  cried  when  he  was  yet  a 
Roman  and  a  citizen.  But  in  France  and  in  England — 
even  in  Italy — we  must  act  otherwise.  We  attain  our  end 
just  the  same,  but  without  noise.  Only  one  man  some- 
where, with  a  clear  brain  and  an  arm  that  will  not  fail, 
drives  a  knife — or,  when  all  backs  are  turned,  inverts 
the  bottom  of  a  poison  phial.  He  gains  the  martyr's 
crown,  skips  Purgatory  with  a  bound,  and  finds  him- 
self in  Paradise !" 

The  little  grey  Neapolitan  blinked  owlishly  at  Mariana. 
He  was  growing  sleepy,  and  with  all  his  soul  he  wished 
this  too-wise  man  would  be  silent.  But  being  appealed 
to,  he  thought  it  safer  to  agree. 

"Certainly — certainly,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  same  in 
Italy." 

"In  Italy — not  quite,  my  friend,"  said  Mariana; 
"your  needs  are  scarcely  the  same.  With  you,  cup-and- 
dagger  are  as  common  as — fleas,  and  as  little  thought  of. 
You  have  means  (literally)  to  your  hand!  But  here  we 
have  to  manufacture  them,  put  spirit  into  them,  send 
them  out  on  their  mission  as  only  we  of  the  Gesu  can 
do." 

The  Jesuit  of  Toledo  paused  a  little  in  his  argument, 
turning  his  eyes  from  one  to  the  other. 

"As  to  this  little  matter,"  he  said,  again  tapping  the 
Papal  Bull  with  his  finger-nail,  "I  have  a  man  who  will 
execute  His  Holiness's  will — in  your  national  manner, 
my  good  Tullio.  Only  first,  he  would  have  a  mandate 
from  the  Holy  Office,  a  sort  of  safe-conduct  for  his  soul 
— the  promise  of  absolution  for  breaking  his  vow  against 


The  White  Plume  223 

tHe  shedding  of  blood.  He  is,  I  must  tell  you,  a  little 
Dominican  of  Sens,  presently  misbehaving  himself  in  the 
mother-college  of  St.  Jacques  at  Paris.  But  he  is  good 
material  for  all  that,  properly  handled." 

Teruel  spoke  with  the  natural  caution  of  the  peas- 
ant. 

"But,"  said  he,  "we  will  be  held  responsible  if  aught 
goes  amiss ;  our  duty  here  is  difficult  enough !  The 
King " 

"The  King  I  will  take  in  my  own  hand,"  said  Mariana. 
"I  warrant  you  his  fullest  protection  and  approval. 
You  shall  have  great  favour — perhaps  even  be  moved  to 
Seville  or  Granada,  or  some  other  place  where  Jews, 
Moriscos,  and  heretics  are  frequent  and  rich.  Write  me 
the  paper  and  seal  it  with  the  seal  official !" 

So  with  his  Papal  Bull  and  an  order  from  his  chiefs 
of  the  Holy  Office,  assembled  in  council  at  the  nearest 
accessible  point,  Mariana  withdrew  to  his  bed,  and  none 
in  all  the  Street  of  the  Money  slept  sounder  than  he  that 
night,  though  when  he  opened  the  window  to  let  in  a 
breath  of  the  cool,  moist  air  off  the  Tet,  the  prayers  of 
the  prisoners  could  be  heard  coming  in  moaning  gusts 

from  the  dungeons  beneath. 

***** 

The  machinery  set  in  motion  by  the  Jesuit  Mariana 
revolved  statedly,  wheel  within  his  wheel.  The  "young 
Dominican  of  Sens,"  delivering  himself  to  a  strange  but 
not  unusual  mixture  of  fanaticism  and  debauch,  misspent 
his  days  with  the  rabble  of  Paris,  his  evenings  in  listening 
to  the  fair  speeches  and  yet  fairer  promises  of  Madame 
de  Montpensier,  the  Duke  of  Guise's  sister,  while  all 
night  mysterious  voices  whispered  in  the  darkness  of  his 
cell  that  he  was  the  chosen  of  God,  the  approved,  and 
that  if  he,  Jacques  Clement,  would  only  kill  the  King, 


224  The  White  Plume 

angels  would  immediately  waft  his  body,  safe  and  un- 
seen, to  the  quiet  of  his  convent. 

Had  he  not  heard  the  Bull  of  the  Pope  read  by  the 
Father  Superior?  Had  the  Holy  Office  not  promised 
him  immunity,  nay,  even  canonisation — had  not  Madame 
de  Montpensier ?  But  enough,  Jacques  Clement,  riot- 
ous mcrik  of  Sens,  sat  him  down  and  made  his  dagger  like 
a  needle  for  sharpness,  like  a  mirror  for  polish.  This  he 
did  when  he  should  hnve  been  reading  his  breviary  in  the 

monastery  of  the  Dominicans  in  the  Rue  Saint-Jacques. 
*  *  *  *  * 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  on  the  evening  of  the  third 
day  of  August,  1589,  Jean-aux-Choux,  still  wearing  his 
great  shepherd's  cloak,  though  all  Perpignan  city  panted 
in  the  fervent  heat,  and  the  cool  water  of  the  Tet  reeked 
against  the  sun-heated  banks,  stood  again  at  the  door 
of  that  gloomy  house  in  the  Street  of  the  Money. 

Above,  the  three  men  waited  as  before.  But  this  time 
there  was  no  hesitation  about  admittance,  not  even  a 
question  asked.  The  three  men  who  had  done  a  great 
thing  far  away,  without  lifting  one  of  their  little  fingers, 
now  waited,  tense  with  anxiety — not  for  themselves,  for 
no  one  of  them  cared  for  his  own  safety,  but  to  know 
that  they  had  won  the  game  for  their  Church  and  cause. 

To  them  Jean-aux-Choux  opened  his  mouth. 

"He  is  dead!"  he  announced,  solemnly — "Henry  of 
Valois  is  dead !  The  siege  of  Paris  is  raised.  Epernon 
and  the  great  lords  have  refused  to  serve  a  Huguenot 
king.  They  have  gone  home " 

"And  the  Bearnais — the  Bearnais?"  interrupted  Mari- 
ana hoarsely ;  "what  of  him  ?" 

"I  saw  him  ride  sadly  away — the  White  Scarves  only 
following !" 

Then  for  once,  at  the  crowning  moment  of  his  life, 


The  White  Plume  225 

Mariana,  the  smiling  Jesuit,  leaned  face-forward  on  the 
table.  His  strength  had  gone  from  him. 

"Enough,"  he  said.  "I  have  done  the  Society's  will. 
But  so  great  success  even  I  had  not  hoped  for !" 

And  he  rocked  himself  to  and  fro  in  that  terrible  crisis 
of  nervous  emotion  which  comes  only  to  the  most  self- 
restrained,  while  Teruel,  the  Surintendant  of  the  Holy 
Inquisition,  and  Frey  Tullio  his  second,  were  prodigal  of 
their  cares,  lavishing  restoratives,  of  which  (in  virtue  of 
their  office)  they  had  great  store  in  the  Street  qf  the 
Money. 

None  minded  Jean-aux-Choux,  or  even  thanked  him. 
But  he,  seeing  a  parchment  with  a  familiar  name  written 
upon  it,  the  ink  scarcely  dry,  and  as  a  paper-weight  the 
seal  of  the  Holy  Office  ready  to  append  to  it,  coolly 
pocketed  both  seal  and  mandate. 

It  was  a  warrant  to  the  familiars  of  the  Holy  Office  in 
the  city  of  Perpignan  to  seize  the  body  of  one  Claire 
Agnew,  a  known  and  warrantable  heretic,  presently  re- 
siding at  the  house  of  La  Masane  near  Collioure,  and  to 
bring  her  within  the  prisons  of  the  aforesaid  Inquisition 
in  the  Street  of  the  Money,  in  the  city  above  mentioned, 
within  ten  days  at  most  from  that  date — upon  peril  of 
their  several  lives,  and  of  the  lives  of  all  that  should  de- 
fend, aid,  assist,  or  shelter  the  said  Claire  Agnew,  heretic, 
daughter  of  Fra^ois  of  that  name,  plotter,  spy  and 
Calvinist. 

Followed  the  signs  and  signatures  of  the  two  inquisi- 
tors in  charge — to  wit,  Teruel  and  Tullio.  The  name  of 
Mariana  did  not  anywhere  appear. 

"Ten  days,"  muttered  Jean-aux-Choux,  when  he  had 
read  it  over;  "that  gives  us  time.  And  there" — he 
heaved  the  seal  of  the  Holy  Office  into  the  Tet— "they 
will  have  to  get  one  made.  That  will  be  another  length 
to  our  tether!" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
THE  WAY  OF  THE  SALT  MARSHES 

THE  shore  road  from  Perpignan  to  Collioure  is  a  pass, 
dark  and  perilous,  even  on  an  August  night.  But  Jean- 
aux-Choux  trod  it  with  the  assured  foot  of  one  to  whom 
the  night  is  as  the  day.  He  had,  as  the  people  of  Colli- 
oure asserted,  been  assuredly  witch-born.  Now  to  be 
"witch-born"  may  induce  spiritual  penalties  hereafter, 
but,  from  all  purely  earthly  points  of  view,  it  is  a  good 
thing.  For  then  you  have  cat's  eyes  and  can  walk 
through  black  night  as  though  it  were  noonday.  Con- 
cerning this,  however,  Jean  did  not  trouble  himself.  He 
considered  himself  well-born,  well-baptised,  one  of  the 
elect,  and,  therefore,  perfectly  prepared — a  great  thing 
when  it  is  your  lot  to  walk  in  the  midst  of  many  sudden 
deaths — for  whatever  the  future  might  bring.  He  was 
turning  over  in  his  mind  ways  and  means  of  getting 
Claire  across  the  frontier — not  very  greatly  troubled,  be- 
cause, first  of  all,  there  was  the  ten  days'  grace,  and 
though  the  Inquisition  would  doubtless  have  watchers 
posted  about  the  house,  he,  Jean-aux-Choux,  could 
easily  outwit  them. 

So  he  traversed  the  desolate  flats  between  Perpignan 
and  Elne,  across  which  wild  bulls  were  then  permitted  to 
range.  Indeed,  they  came  at  times  right  up  to  the  verge 
of  the  vineyards,  which  cultivators  were  just  beginning 
to  hedge  from  their  ravages  with  the  strange  spike- 
leaved  plant  called  the  Fig  of  the  Moors.  But  Jean-aux- 
Choux  had  no  fear  of  anything  that  walked  upon  four 


The  White  Plume  227 

feet.  He  carried  his  long  shepherd's  staff  with  the  steel 
point  to  it,  trailing  behind  him  like  a  pike.  And  though, 
rounding  the  salt  marshes  and  etangs  or  "stanks,"  there 
came  to  his  ears  the  crooning  of  the  herds,  muttering 
discontentedly  in  their  sleep  with  bovine  noises,  the  sharp 
click  of  horns  that  tossed  and  interlocked  in  their  effort 
to  dislodge  the  mosquitoes,  the  sludgy  splash  of  broad 
hooves  in  the  wallows,  the  crisp  snap  of  the  salt  crust, 
like  thin  ice  breaking — for  all  which  things  Jean-aux- 
Choux  cared  nothing.  Of  course,  his  trained  ear  took 
in  all  these  noises,  registering,  classifying,  and  drawing 
deductions  from  them.  But  he  never  once  even  raised 
his  pointed  staff,  nor  changed  his  direction.  Perhaps  the 
shepherd's  cloak  deceived  the  animals,  or  more  likely  the 
darkness  of  the  night.  For  ordinarily  it  is  death  to  ven- 
ture there,  save  on  horseback,  and  armed  with  the  trident 
of  Camargue.  Once  or  twice  he  shouldered  two  or  three 
bulls  this  way  and  that,  pushing  them  over  as  one  who 
grooms  horses  in  their  stalls  after  the  labours  of  the  day. 

But  all  the  time  his  thoughts  were  on  the  paths  by 
which  he  would  carry  off  his  master's  daughter,  Claire 
Agnew,  and  set  her  in  safety  on  the  soil  of  free,  if 
stormy,  France,  where  the  Inquisition  had  no  power — nor 
was  likely  to  have  so  long  as  the  Bearnais  lived  and 
the  old-time  phalanx  of  the  Calvinists,  D'Aubigne, 
Rosny,  Turenne,  and  the  rest  stood  about  him. 

Once  or  twice  he  thought,  with  some  exultation,  of 
the  dead  Valois.  For,  if  Guise  had  been  the  moving 
spirit  and  bloody  executioner  of  Saint  Bartholomew,  this 
same  Henry  of  Valois,  who  had  died  at  St.  Cloud,  had 
been  the  chief  plotter — rather,  say,  the  second — for 
Catherine,  his  mother,  the  Medicean  woman,  had  as- 
suredly been  the  first.  For  all  he  had  done  personally, 
Jean  had  no  care,  no  remorse.  As  to  the  deed  of  Jacques 


228  The  White  Plume 

Clement,  he  himself  would  not  have  slain  an  ally  of  the 
Bearnais.  But,  after  all,  it  was  justice  that  the  priest 
should  slay  the  priest-ridden,  and  that  the  fanatic  monk 
should  slay  the  founder  of  the  Order  of  the  Penitents. 

Altogether,  Jean-aux-Choux  had  a  quiet  mind  as  he 
went.  Above  him,  and  somewhat  to  his  left  hand,  hung 
a  black  mass,  which  was  the  rock-set  town  of  Elne  on 
its  look-out  hill.  Highest  of  all  loomed  the  black, 
shadowy  mass  of  its  cathedral,  with  the  towers  cutting  a 
fantastic  pattern  against  the  skies. 

Then  came  again  the  cultivated  fields,  hedges,  ditches, 
the  spiked  agave  dykes,  over  which  he  swung,  using  his 
long  staff  for  a  leaping-pole — again  the  salt  marshes,  and 
lastly,  the  steep  shingle  and  blown  sand  of  the  sea. 

Here  the  waves  fell  with  a  soft  and  cooling  sound. 
Twenty  miles  of  heavy,  grey-black  salt  water,  the  water 
of  the  Midland  sea,  stately  said  "Hush"  to  the  stars. 

Jean  stopped  and  listened.  There  was  no  need  for 
haste.  Ten  days,  and  the  task  would  need  thinking  over 
— how  to  get  her,  by  Salses,  to  Narbonne,  where  there 
was  good  French  authority  and  the  protection  of  the 
great  lords  of  his  own  party.  But  he  would  succeed. 
He  knew  it.  He  had  never  failed  yet. 

So  Jean  was  at  peace.  The  stars  looked  down,  blink- 
ing sleepily  through  various-coloured  prisms.  The  sea 
said  so.  You  heard  the  wavelet  run  along  the  shore,  and 
the  "Hush"  dying  out  infinitesimally,  as  the  world's 
clamour  dies  into  the  silence  of  space. 

But  Jean-aux-Choux  would  have  been  a  little  less  at 
ease,  and  put  a  trifle  more  powder  into  his  heels,  had  he 
known  that  the  warrant  of  the  Holy  Office  which  he 
carried  in  his  pocket  was  only  a  first  draft,  and  that  the 
actual  document  was  already  in  the  hands  of  the  familiars, 
to  be  executed  at  their  peril.  Also,  that  in  this  there 


The  White  Plume  229 

was  no  question  of  days,  either  of  ten  or  any  other 
number.     The  acolytes  of  the  Black  Robe  had  a  free 

hand. 

#  *  *  *  * 

The  morning  was  coming  up,  all  peach  and  primrose,  out 
of  the  east,  reddening  the  port-waters  of  Collioure,  and 
causing  the  white  house  of  La  Masane,  upon  its  hill,  to 
blush,  when  Jean-aux-Choux  leaped  the  wall  of  his  own 
sheepfold  and  came  suddenly  upon  a  figure  he  knew  well. 

He  saw  a  young  man,  bare  of  head,  his  steel  cap,  velvet- 
covered  and  white-plumed,  resting  on  a  low  turf  dyke. 
He  had  laid  aside  his  weapons,  all  except  his  dagger, 
and  with  that  he  was  cultivating  and  cherishing  his 
finger-nails.  His  heel  was  over  the  knee  of  his  other  leg, 
in  that  pose  which  the  young  male  sex  can  only  attain 
with  grace  between  the  ages  of  twenty  and  twenty-five. 

"Hallo,  Jean-aux-Choux!"  he  cried.  "Here  have  I 
been  waiting  you  for  hours  and  hours  unnumbered.  Is 
this  the  way  you  keep  your  master's  sheep?  If  I  were 
that  most  scowling  nobleman  of  the  castle  down  there,  I 
would  soon  bid  you  travel.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me, 
your  sheep  would  have  been  sore  put  to  it  for  a  mouthful, 
and  the  nursing  ewes  certainly  dead  of  thirst.  Where 
have  you  been  all  these  three  days  ?" 

"The  Abbe  John — the  little  D'Albret!"  cried  Jean- 
aux-Choux,  thoroughly  surprised  for  once  in  his  life; 
"how  do  you  come  here?" 

"I  have  been  on  my  master's  business,"  answered  the 
Abbe  John  carelessly,  "and  now  I  am  waiting  to  do  a 
little  on  my  own  account.  But  there  have  been  so  many 
suspicious  gentry  about  that  I  hesitated  to  go  down  till 
I  had  seen  you.  Now  tell  me  all  that  has  happened. 
That  SHE  is  safe,  I  know;  I  have  seen  her  every  day — 
from  a  distance !" 


230  The  WTiite  Plume 

"She — who?"  asked  Jean,  though  he  knew  very  well. 

"Who  ? — why,  Claire,  of  course,"  said  the  cousin  of  the 
Bearnais;  "you  do  not  suppose  I  came  so  far  to  see  the 
little  old  woman  in  the  blue  pinafore  who  walks  nodding 
her  head  and  rattling  her  keys?  Or  you,  you  great, 
thick-skulled  oaf  of  Geneva,  or  the  Sorbonnist  with  the 
bald  head  and  the  eyes  that  look  and  see  nothing?  What 
should  a  young  man  come  so  far  for,  and  risk  his  life 
to  see,  if  not  a  fair  young  girl?  Answer  me.  What  did 
John  Calvin  teach  you  as  to  that?" 

"Only  this,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux  solemnly :  "  'From 
the  lust  of  the  flesh,  from  the  lust  of  the  eye,  from  the 
pride  of  life,  good  Lord,  deliver  me !" 

The  young  man  looked  up  from  his  nail-polishing, 
sharply  and  keenly. 

"Aye— so,"  he  said.     "Well— and  did  He?" 

For  a  moment,  but  only  for  a  moment,  Jean-aux-Choux 
stood  nonplussed.  Then  he  found  his  answer,  and  this 
time  it  was  John  Stirling,  armiger,  scholar  in  divinity, 
who  spoke. 

"The  God  of  John  Calvin  has  delivered  me  from  all 
thought  of  self  in  the  matter  of  this  maid,  my  master's 
daughter.  What  might  have  grown  up  in  my  heart,  or 
even  what  may  once  have  been  in  my  heart,  had  I  been 
aught  but  a  battered  masque  of  humanity,  an  offence  to 
the  beauty  of  God's  creation — that  is  not  your  business, 
nor  that  of  any  man !" 

The  young  fellow  dropped  his  knife,  and  rising,  clasped 
Jean-aux-Choux  frankly  about  the  neck. 

"Jean — Jean — old  friend,"  he  cried,  "wherefore  should 
I  hurt  you?  Why  should  you  think  it  of  me?  Not  for 
the  world — you  know  that  well.  Forgive  an  idle 
word." 

But  Jean-aux-Choux  was  moved,  and  having  the  large 


The  White  Plume  231 

heart,  when  once  the  waves  tossed  it  the  calm  returned 
but  slowly. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "it  is  only  a  few  months  since  you  first 
saw  Claire  Agnew.  Yet  you  have,  as  I  judge  from  your 
light  words,  admired  her  after  your  kind.  But  I — I 
have  loved  her  as  my  own  maid — my  sole  thought,  my 
only — ever  since  her  father  gathered  me  up,  a  lame  and 
bleeding  boy,  on  the  morning  after  the  Bartholomew. 
And  ever  since  that  day  I  have  loved  much,  showed  little, 
and  said  nothing  at  all.  Yet  I  have  kept  keen  guard. 
Night  and  day  I  have  gone  about  her  house,  like  a 
faithful  dog  when  the  wolves  are  howling  in  the  forests. 
Now,  if  you  love  this  girl  with  any  light  love,  take  your 
way  as  you  came — for  you  shall  have  to  reckon  with 
me!" 

The  Abbe  John  dropped  back  on  the  round  stone  which 
served  equally  as  seat  and  rubbing-post  in  the  sheep-fold. 
The  oil  of  many  woolly  backs  had  long  since  rendered  it 
black  and  glistening.  He  resumed  the  polishing  of  his 
nails  with  his  dagger-edge. 

Grave  and  stern,  Jean-aux-Choux  stood  before  him, 
his  hand  on  the  weapon  which  had  slain  the  Guise.  The 
Abbe  John  rubbed  each  finger-nail  carefully  on  the  velvet 
of  his  cap  as  he  finished  it,  breathed  on  it,  rubbed  again, 
and  then  held  it  up  to  the  light. 

"Ah,  Jean,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  may  not  go  about  her 
house  howling  like  a  wolf,  nor  yet  do  any  great  thing  for 
her.  As  you  say,  our  acquaintance  has  not  been  long. 
But  if  you  can  love  her  more  than  I,  or  serve  her  better, 
or  are  willing  to  give  your  life  more  lightly  for  her  sake 
than  I — why  then,  Jean,  my  friend,  you  are  welcome  to 
her!" 

Jean-aux-Choux  did  not  answer,  but  D'Albret  took 
no  heed.  He  went  on; 


232  The  White  Plume 

"  'By  their  deeds  ye  shall  know  them.'  They  taugKE 
you  that  at  Geneva,  I  warrant.  Well,  from  what  I  have 
seen  these  past  three  days,  Claire  Agnew  is  far  from  safe 
down  there.  I  have  watched  that  black-browed  master 
of  yours  conferring  with  certain  other  gentlemen  of  sin- 
gularly evil  physiognomy.  There  has  been  far  too  much 
dodging  into  coppices  and  popping  heads  round  stone 
walls.  And  then,  as  often  as  the  maid  comes  to  the  door 
with  the  little  old  woman  in  the  stomacher  of  blue — click 
— they  are  all  in  their  holes  again,  like  a  warren-full  of 
rabbits  when  you  look  over  the  hedge  and  clap  your 
hands !  I  do  not  like  it,  Jean-aux-Choux !" 

Neither  did  Jean-aux-Choux — so  little,  indeed,  that 
he  decided  to  take  this  light-minded  young  gentleman, 
of  good  family  and  few  ambitions,  into  his  confidence — 
which  perhaps  was  the  wisest  thing  he  could  have  done. 
From  his  blouse  he  drew  the  parchment  he  had  lifted  off 
the  table  of  the  Inquisition  in  the  Street  of  the  Money, 
and  thrust  it  silently  into  the  other's  hand. 

This  was  all  Jean-aux-Choux's  apology,  but,  for  the 
Abbe  John,  it  was  perfectly  sufficient. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
IN  THEIR   CLUTCHES 

IT  was  the  night  of  the  grand  coup  which  was  to  ease 
Master  Raphael  Llorient  of  all  his  troubles  financial, 
and  also  to  put  an  acknowledged  heretic  within  the 
clutches  of  these  two  faithful  servants  of  the  Holy  Of- 
fice, Dom  Ambrose  Teruel  and  his  second,  Frey  Tullia 
the  Neapolitan. 

The  affair  had  been  carried  out  with  the  utmost  zeal, 
and  though  at  first  success  had  seemed  more  than  doubt- 
ful, the  familiars  of  the  Office  had  pounced  upon  their 
victim  walking  calmly  towards  them  down  a  little  hollow 
among  the  sand-dunes. 

At  La  Masane,  it  appeared  to  them  that  an  alarm 
had  been  given,  and  that,  as  little  Andres  the  Ape  ex^ 
pressed  it,  "the  whole  byre  had  broken  halter  and  run 
for  it." 

The  familiars  were  hard  on  the  track,  however,  and 
the  way  from  La  Masane  to  the  beach  is  no  child's  play- 
ground when  the  nights  are  dark  as  the  inside  of  a  wolf. 
Serra,  Calbet,  and  Andres  Font  were  three  sturdy  rascals, 
condemned  to  long  terms  of  imprisonment,  who  had  ob- 
tained freedom  from  their  penalties  on  condition  of  f aith^ 
fully  serving  the  Holy  Inquisition.  They  were  all  nearly, 
though  vaguely,  related  to  prominent  ecclesiastics,  the 
warmth  of  whose  family  feelings  had  obtained  this  favour 
for  them. 

They  had,  therefore,  every  reason  for  satisfying  their 
masters.  For  pardon  frequently  followed  zeal,  and  the 


234  The  White  Plume 

ex-culprit  and  ex-familiar  was  permitted  to  return  in  the 
halo  of  a  terrible  sanctity  to  his  native  village.  There 
were  not  a  few,  however,  whom  the  craft  ended  by  fas- 
cinating. And  after  in  vain  trying  the  cultivation  of 
crops  and  the  pruning  of  vines,  lo !  they  would  be  back 
again  at  the  door  of  the  Holy  Office,  begging  to  be  taken 
in,  if  it  were  only  to  be  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water  for  the  auto  da  fe  and  the  water-torture. 

Of  the  present  three,  Serra,  a  Murcian  from  these  half- 
depopulated  villages  where  the  Moors  once  dwelt,  alone 
was  of  this  type.  A  huge  man  with  a  low  forehead,  a 
great  shapeless  face  like  a  clenched  fist,  with  little  twink- 
ling pigs'  eyes  set  deep  under  hairless  brows,  he  did  his 
work  for  the  love  of  it.  He  it  was  who  saw  to  it  that  no 
harm  befell  the  prisoner  on  the  long  night-ride  to  Perpig- 
nan.  It  was  a  dainty  capture,  well  carried  out.  Since 
the  wholesale  emigration  of  the  Jews  of  Roussillon  to 
Bayonne  in  the  West,  the  auto  da  fe  of  the  East  was 
usually  shamed  for  want  of  pretty  young  maids.  These 
always  attracted  the  crowd  more  than  anything,  and 
Serra  the  Murcian  bared  his  teeth  at  the  thought.  In 
his  way  he  admired  Claire  Agnew.  From  various  hiding- 
places  he  had  watched  her  many  days  ere  his  superiors 
judged  that  all  was  ready.  Now  he  would  do  his  best 
for  her.  She  should  have  the  highest,  the  middle  pile, 
which  is  honour.  Also,  Serra  the  Murcian  would  see  to 
it  that  her  bonfire  contained  no  sea-grass  or  juniper 
rootlets,  which  blazed  indeed,  but  only  scorched ;  neither 
any  wet,  sea-borne  wood  from  wrecked  ships,  which 
smoked  and  sulked,  but  would  not  burn.  No — he,  Serra, 
would  do  the  thing  for  her  in  gentlemanly  fashion  as 
became  a  hidalgo  of  Murcia.  The  pretty  heretic  should 
have  clear  dry  birch,  one  year  old,  with  olive  roots  aged 
several  hundreds,  all  mixed  with  shavings  and  pine  cones, 


The  White  Plume  235 

and  a  good  top-dressing  of  oil  like  a  salad  to  finish  all. 
And  then  (the  Murcian  showed  his  teeth  and  gums  in 
a  vast  semi-African  grin,  like  a  trench  slashed  out  of 
a  melon),  well — she  would  have  reason  to  be  proud  of 
herself. 

The  pillar  of  clear  flame  would  rise  above  Claire's  head 
ten — nay,  twenty  feet,  wrapping  her  about  like  a  gar- 
ment. She  would  have  no  long  time  to  suffer.  He  was 
a  kind-hearted  man,  this  Serra  the  Murcian — that  is, 
to  those  to  whom  he  had  taken  a  fancy,  as  was  the  case 
with  Claire.  If  any  torture  was  commanded,  either  the 
Lesser  or  the  Greater  Question,  he  would  make  it  light. 
It  would  never  do  to  spoil  her  beauty  against  the  Great 
Day !  What,  after  all,  did  they  know,  these  two  wise 
men  in  black  who  only  sat  on  their  chairs  and  watched? 
It  was  the  familiars  who  made  or  marred  in  the  House 
of  Pain — indeed,  Serra  himself,  for  he  could  destroy  the 
others  with  a  word.  They  had  accepted  bribes  from 
relatives — he  never. 

They  mounted  Claire  on  the  notary's  white  mule,  the 
sometime  gift  of  the  Bishop  of  Elne.  Ah,  Serra  chuckled, 
Don  Jordy  would  ride  it  no  more.  It  would  be  his — 
Serra's.  He  would  sell  the  beast  and  send  the  money  to 
his  old  mother  who  lived  in  a  disused  oven  cut  out  of  the 
rocks  near  the  Castle  of  the  Moors,  three  leagues  or  so 
from  Murcia  city.  She  was  an  affectionate  old  lady — he 
the  best  of  sons.  It  was  a  shame  they  should  have  mis- 
called her  for  a  witch,  when  all  she  ever  did  was  to  pro- 
vide those  who  desired  a  blank  in  their  families,  or  in 
those  of  their  neighbours,  with  a  certain  fine  white 
powder. 

Serra  himself  had  been  observed  stirring  a  little  in 
some  soup  at  the  mansion  where  he  was  employed  as 
cook.  So,  only  for  that,  they  had  sent  him  to  work  as  a 


236  The  White  Plume 

slave  In  the  mines.  But  a  certain  powerful  friend  of  his 
mother's,  who  lived  in  the  lonely  abbey  out  on  the  plain, 
near  the  great  water-wheel  (Serra  remembered  the  dash- 
ing of  the  water  in  his  babyhood  before  he  could  remem- 
ber anything  else),  got  him  this  good  place  with  Dom 
Teruel,  who  had  been  his  comrade  of  the  seminary.  And 
so  now  his  mother  was  safe — aye,  if  she  sold  her  fine  white 
meal  openly  like  so  much  salt.  For  who  in  all  Murcia 
would  touch  the  mother  of  the  First  Familiar  of  the 
Holy  Office?  They  reverenced  her  more — much  more — 
than  the  village  priest  who  held  the  keys  of  heaven  and 
hell — for,  after  all,  these  were  far-away  things. 

But  the  Holy  Office — ah,  that  was  another  matter. 
None  spake  of  that,  either  above  or  below  their  breaths, 
from  one  end  of  Spain  to  the  other. 

So  Serra  the  Murcian  communed  with  himself,  and 
with  only  an  occasional  tug  at  the  ropes  that  bound  his 
captive  to  the  white  mule  of  Don  Jordy,  he  continued  his 
way,  rejoicing  in  heart. 

But  the  other  two,  ordinary  criminals  with  but  little 
influence,  contented  themselves  with  hoping  for  the 
freedom  of  the  broad  champaign,  the  arid  treeless  plains 
of  old  Castile,  the  far-running  sweeps  of  golden  corn,  the 
crowded  ventas  with  their  gay  Bohemian  company,  the 
shouted  songs,  and  above  all,  the  cool  gurgle  of  wine 
running  down  thirsty,  dust-caked  throats — ah!  it  would 
be  good.  And  it  might  come  soon,  if  only  they  served 
the  Holy  Office  well ! 

Both  of  them  hated  and  despised  Serra,  because  of 
his  place,  his  zeal,  and  especially  because  of  his  favour 
with  the  Surintendant. 

The  senior  of  the  two  underlings,  Felieu  Calbet,  from 
the  Llogrebrat  (Espluga  the  name  of  the  town,  where 
they  are  always  fighting  and  every  one  lives  on  the 


The  White  Plume  237 

charity  of  the  fathers  of  Poblet),  was  ill  at  ease,  and  said 
as  much  to  Andres  Font,  a  little  lithe  creature  with  a 
monkey's  hands  and  temper,  treacherous  and  vile  as  a 
snake  that  writhes  and  bites  in  the  dust. 

These  two  were  trudging  behind,  their  long  Albacete 
knives  in  their  hands,  ready  for  any  attempt  to  escape. 
But  the  tall  young  maid  sat  steady  on  the  broad  back 
of  Don  Jordy's  white  mule.  She  said  no  word.  She 
uttered  no  plaint. 

Said  Felieu  Calbet  of  Espluga,  senior  familiar,  to  little 
wizened  Andres,  third  of  the  band,  "Our  brave  Serra  is 
content.  Hear  him !  He  is  humming  his  Moorish  charms 
— the  accursed  wizard  that  he  is !  But  for  me,  I  am  not 
so  sure  that  all  goes  well.  They  let  that  lass  go  some- 
what too  easily — eh,  Andres?" 

And  the  little  ape-faced  man,  first  sliding  his  dagger 
into  its  sheath  as  they  emerged  upon  an  open  rocky  bit 
of  road  with  a  few  tall  stone-pines  all  leaning  back  from 
the  sea-winds,  answered  after  his  fashion,  biting  his 
words  maliciously  as  he  uttered  them. 

"Yea,  belike,"  he  muttered;  "indeed,  it  was  a  strange 
thing  that  within  five  hundred  yards  of  the  sea,  where 
they  had  their  boat  anchored  ready,  they  should  not  turn 
and  fight  for  the  prisoner.  How  many  were  there  of 
them,  think  you,  Felieu?" 

"Four  I  saw — and  there  might  have  been  another.  One 
cowered  in  the  hood  of  a  cloak,  as  if  he  feared  that  his 
face  would  be  seen " 

"That  makes  five,  and  we  but  three !  The  thing  smells 
of  an  ambush.  Well,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  be  ready, 
and,  if  need  be,  fight  like  the  Demon  of  the  South  himself. 
It  is  our  prisoner  or  the  stake  for  you  and  me,  my 
lad!" 

The  little  ape-faced,  bat-eared  Andres,  who  had  never 


238  The  White  Plume 

told  any  what  he  had  been  sent  there  for,  was  arguing 
the  matter  out  by  himself. 

"There  is  something  behind  this,"  he  said;  "they  have 
a  card  somewhere  we  have  not  seen  the  front  of." 

They  marched  a  while,  the  silence  only  broken  by  the 
fall  of  the  mule's  feet  on  the  stones. 

"I  have  it,"  cried  Andres,  suddenly  elevating  his  thin 
voice  above  a  whisper.  It  was  only  a  squeak  at  best, 
but  it  aroused  the  First  Familiar  from  his  dreams  of 
honour  at  the  mule's  bridle. 

"Silence  there,  you  Andres,"  he  commanded,  "or  by 
Saint  Vincent  I  will  wring  your  neck !" 

"Wring  my  neck!  He  dares  not,"  snarled  the  little 
wrinkled  man,  with  an  evil  grin,  in  the  darkness — "he 
dares  not,  big  as  he  is,  and  he  knows  it.  He  would  find 
a  dozen  inches  of  steel  ensconced  between  his  ribs.  If 
I  am  no  bigger  than  an  ox-goad,  I  am  burnt  at  the  end, 
and  can  drive  home  a  sharp  point  with  any  man." 

"Do  not  mind  the  hog,"  said  Felieu  the  Esplugan. 
"What  was  it  you  thought  of?" 

"That  Don  Raphael  Llorient  was  out  with  a  band  of 
his  lads  from  the  Castle  of  Collioure.  Doubtless  he 
headed  them  off  from  the  boat,  and  they  had  to  save 
themselves  as  best  they  might.  So  they  scattered  among 
the  sand-hills !" 

"Hum,  perhaps — we  shall  see,"  said  Felieu  the  Esplu- 
gan. "At  any  rate,  keep  your  eyes  open  and  your  knife 
ready  to  the  five-finger  grip.  We  must  kill,  rather  than 
let  her  go.  You  know  the  rule." 

Indeed,  they  all  knew  the  rule.  No  relaxation  of  the 
Arm  Spiritual  till  the  culprit,  arrayed  in  the  flame- 
coloured  robe  of  condemnation,  was  ready  for  the  final 
relaxation  to  the  Arm  Secular. 

All  the  same,  there  was  no  slightest  attempt  at  rescue, 


HE    BOWED    GRACEFULLY   TO    THE    COMPANY, 
FOLDED   HIS    ARMS,    AND    WAITED 


The  White  Plume  239 

and  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  the  procession 
defiled  into  the  city  gates  of  Perpignan,  which  opened 
freely  at  all  hours  to  the  familiars  of  the  Holy  Office — 
the  guard  discreetly  keeping  their  eyes  on  the  ground. 
And  so  the  four,  in  the  same  order  as  at  first,  turned 
sharply  into  the  Street  of  the  Money. 

Serra,  the  huge,  fist-faced  Murcian,  with  the  blood  of 
Africa  in  him,  carefully  undid  the  bonds,  and  hoped, 
with  a  Spaniard's  innate  politeness,  that  they  had  not  too 
greatly  incommoded  his  guest.  But  the  "guest"  answered 
not  a  word. 

"Sulky,  eh?"  muttered  the  Murcian,  equally  ready  to 
take  offence.  "Very  well,  then,  so  much  the  worse !" 

And  he  resolved  to  save  the  expense  of  the  oil  for 
Claire's  funeral  pyre.  He  had  meant  to  go  out  of  his 
way  to  do  the  thing  in  style.  But  with  such  a  haughty 
dame — and  she  a  Huguenot,  one  of  the  Accursed,  no 
more  a  Christian  than  any  Jew — why  should  she  give 
herself  airs  ?  The  thing  was  intolerable ! 

In  this,  Serra  the  Murcian,  First  Familiar  of  the  Holy 
Inquisition,  followed  the  Golden  Rule.  He  did  literally 
as  he  would  be  done  by.  If  it  had  been  his  fate  (and 
with  a  reliable  witch  for  a  mother  it  was  no  far-away 
conjecture) — if  it  had  been  his  own  fortune  to  die  at 
the  stake — he  would  have  been  grateful  for  the  highest 
seat,  the  dryest  wood,  the  tallest  pillar  of  flame,  the 
happiest  dispatch  with  all  modern  improvements.  He 
resented  it,  therefore,  when  Claire  Agnew  showed  herself 
ungrateful  for  the  like. 

Well,  he  had  done  his  duty.    The  worse  for  her.    Like 

Pilate,  he  washed  his  hands. 

***** 

But  such  emotions  as  these  he  soon  forgot.  He  had 
reason. 


240  The  White  Plume 

For  above,  in  the  accustomed  bare  room,  with  only  the 
crucifix  upon  the  whitewashed  walls,  the  same  three  men 
were  waiting  anxiously  for  the  arrival  of  the  prisoner. 

The  little  band  of  familiars,  having  handed  over  the 
white  mule  to  a  trusty  subordinate,  came  up  the  stairs, 
and  after  giving  the  customary  knock,  and  being  an- 
swered in  the  deep  voice  of  Dom  Teruel,  they  stood  blink- 
ing in  the  glare  of  the  lights,  their  prisoner  in  the  midst. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room — a  great  fateful  silence. 
Then  the  soft  voice  of  Mariana  the  Jesuit  broke  the 
pause. 

"And  who,  good  Serra,  may  this  be  that  you  have 
brought  us  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Serra,  greatly  astonished,  "who  but  the 
lady  I  have  been  watching  all  these  weeks,  the  Genevan 
heretic,  the  Senorita  from  the  house  of  La  Masane  above 
Collioure.  We  overtook  her  in  flight,  and  captured  her 
among  the  sand-dunes  on  the  very  edge  of  the  sea !" 

"Ah,  the  Senorita?"  purred  the  Jesuit;  "then  is  the 
Senorita  fitted  with  a  nascent  but  very  tolerable  pair  of 
moustacios !" 

Serra  stared  a  moment,  tore  off  the  cloak  with  its  heavy 
hood,  clutched  at  the  lighter  summer  mantilla  of  dark 
lace  and  silk.  It  ripped  and  tore  vertically,  and  lo! 
as  a  butterfly  issues  from  the  chrysalis,  forth  stepped  the 
Abbe  John,  clad  in  pale  blue  velvet  from  head  to  knee, 
as  for  a  court  reception. 

He  bowed  gracefully  to  the  company,  twisted  his  mous- 
tache, folded  his  arms,  and  waited. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
AND  ONE  WAS  NOT! 

AND  this  was  how  it  chanced.  All  that  was  hidden  from 
Serra,  the  fist-faced  son  of  a  Murcian  witch,  from  Felieu, 
the  querulous  Esplugan,  and  from  Andres,  the  little  ape 
with  the  bat's  ears,  shall  be  made  clear. 

With  no  exception,  the  family  of  La  Masane  was  re- 
solved to  go  back  to  France,  where,  if  the  country  was 
still  disturbed,  at  least  there  was  no  Inquisition. 

"I,"  said  the  Professor,  "know  not  whether  I  shall  ever 
teach  again  in  my  class-room — not,  at  least,  while  the 
Leaguers  bear  rule  in  Paris.  But  I  have  a  little  money 
laid  aside  in  a  safe  place,  which  will  at  least  buy  us  a 
vineyard " 

"And  I,"  said  the  Miller- Alcalde,  "have  enough  gold 
Henries,  safe  with  Pereira,  the  Jew  of  Bayonne,  to  hire  a 
mill  or  two.  Good  bread,  and  well-ground  wheat  where- 
with to  make  it,  are  the  two  things  that  man  cannot  do 
without.  I  can  provide  these,  if  no  better." 

"And  what  better  can  there  be  ?"  cried  Don  Jordy.  "I 
— I  am  learned  in  canon  law,  which  is  the  same  all  the 
world  over.  I  grieve  to  leave  my  good  Bishop  Onuphre. 
But  since  he  cannot  protect  me — nay,  goes  &9 
much  in  fear  of  the  Holy  Office  as  myself — Brother: 
Anatole  must  e'en  hire  me  by  the  day  in  his  vigne,  oii 
Jean-Marie  there  make  me  as  dusty  as  himself  in  his 
mills." 

"And  your  mother,  lads,  have  you  forgotten  her?"  said 
Madame  Amelie. 


242  The  WTiite  Plume 

"You  are  coming  with  us,  mother,"  they  cried,  in 
chorus,  "you  and  Claire.  It  is  for  you  that  we  go !" 

"And  pray  you,  who  will  care  for  my  rabbits,  my  poul- 
try, and  the  pigeons — all  the  basse  cour  of  La  Masane  ?" 
cried  the  Seiiora. 

"That  also  will  be  arranged,  mother,"  said  Don  Jordy. 
"I  will  put  in  a  man  who  will  care  for  all,  till  the  better 
days  come — a  servant  and  favourite  of  Don  Raphael. 
This  inquisitioning  and  denouncing  cannot  last  for  ever 
— any  more  than  Raphael  our  landlord  or  Philip  our 
king." 

"Ah,"  said  his  mother,  "but  both  of  them  are  like  to 
last  beyond  my  time.  And  the  fair  white  house  to  which 
your  father  brought  me,  a  bride!  And  the  sea — on 
which,  being  weary,  I  have  so  often  looked  out  and  been 
refreshed — the  cattle  and  the  vines  and  the  goats  I 
tended — am  I  to  see  them  no  more?" 

"Mother,"  said  the  Professor,  taking  her  hand  and 
drawing  it  away  from  her  face,  "here  are  we  your  three 
sons.  We  can  neither  stay  nor  leave  you.  They  of  the 
Inquisition  would  revenge  on  you  all  that  we  have  cheated 
them  of — taken  out  of  their  hands." 

"They  are  welcome  to  my  old  bones,"  said  the  Seiiora, 
with  a  gesture  of  discouragement. 

"No,"  interrupted  Don  Jordy,  "listen,  mother.  You 
are  none  so  ill  off.  Here  are  we,  three  sons,  hale,  willing, 
and  unwed,  all  ready  to  stand  by  you  and  to  work  for 
you — with  our  hands  if  need  be.  Are  there  many  mothers 
who  can  say  as  much?" 

"Besides,"  added  the  Alcalde-Miller,  "after  all,  it  is 
not  so  far  to  the  frontier,  and,  in  case  of  need,  I  have 
charged  certain  good  lads  I  know  of — accustomed  to 
circumvent  the  King's  revenue — to  make  a  clean  house 
of  La  Masane.  So  if  aught  goes  awry — well,  I  do  not 


The  White  Plume  243 

promise,  but  it  is  possible  that  the  cattle,  and  your  house- 
hold gods,  mother,  with  Don  Jordy's  books  and  the 
Professor's  green  gown,  may  find  themselves  at  Narbonne 
ere  many  weeks  are  over !" 

"And  for  yourself?"  said  Don  Jordy ;  "your  mills,  your 
property  ?" 

The  miller  laughed  and  patted  his  two  brothers  on  the 
back. 

"The  good  God,  who  made  all,  perhaps  did  not  give 
me  so  clever  a  headpiece  as  He  gave  you  two.  But  He 
taught  me,  at  least,  to  send  every  gold  'Henry'  over  the 
frontier  as  soon  as  I  had  another  to  clink  against  it.  For 
the  rest,  ever  as  I  ground  the  corn,  I  took  my  pay.  The 
mills  and  the  machinery  down  there  are  not  mine.  I  am 
worth  no  more  this  side  of  the  frontier  than  the  clothes 
I  stand  up  in.  My  ancient  friend  Pereira,  the  Israelite 
of  Bayonne,  has  the  rest." 

So  that  is  the  reason  why,  when  the  three  familiars  of 
the  Holy  Office  appeared  hot  on  the  trail,  they  found  at 
La  Masane  nothing  more  human  than  Don  Jordy's  white 
mule,  that  knew  no  better  than  to  resist  friendly  hands, 
break  a  head-stall,  and  set  off  after  her  master,  to  her 
own  present  undoing. 

But  what  happened  when  the  family  of  La  Masane 
started  for  the  shore,  where  Jean-Marie,  on  his  way  home 
from  the  Fanal  Mill,  had  anchored  the  boat?  As  he 
worked  his  heart  was  more  than  a  little  sore  that  he 
should  no  more  hear  that  musical  song,  the  tremulous  rush 
of  the  sails  overhead,  or  the  blithe  pour  of  the  rich  meal 
through  the  funnel  into  the  sack.  Best  of  all  he  loved 
the  Fanal  Mill,  both  because  the  sea-water  lashed  up 
blue-green  beneath,  and  because  from  the  door  he  could 
see  Claire's  white  dress  moving  about  the  garden  of  La 
Masane. 


244  The  White  Plume 

This  was  their  plan. 

To  place  Claire  in  safety  was  no  'difficulty.  The  light 
land-breeze  would  carry  them  swiftly  along  the  shore 
towards  the  Narbonne  coast.  It  was  in  Madame  Amelie 
that  the  brothers  found  their  stumbling-block.  Not  that 
the  good  old  lady,  so  imperious  upon  her  own  ground  of 
La  Masane,  meant  in  the  least  to  be  difficult.  But  she 
felt  uprooted,  degraded,  fallen  from  her  high  estate, 
divorced  from  her  own,  and  she  trembled  piteously  as 
she  tottered  on  stout  Jean-Marie's  arm  down  towards 
the  beach. 

Two  days  before  Jean-aux-Choux  had  brought  the 
Abbe  John  to  La  Masane.  At  first  no  one,  certainly 
not  Claire,  appeared  to  make  him  particularly  welcome. 
The  Professor  retrieved  some  of  his  old  professorial 
authority.  Don  Jordy  was  frankly  jealous.  Old  Madame 
Amelie  found  him  finicking  and  fine.  Only  the  burly 
Miller- Alcalde  drew  to  the  lad,  and  tried  in  his  gruff, 
semi-articulate  way  to  make  the  young  Gascon  under- 
stand that,  in  spite  of  his  Bourbon  birth  and  Paris  man- 
ners, he  had  a  friend  in  the  house  of  La  Masane.  And 
this  the  young  man  understood  very  well,  and  repaid 
accordingly.  He  understood  many  things,  the  Abbe 
John — all,  indeed,  except  Claire  Agnew's  coldness.  But 
even  that  he  took  philosophically. 

"He  who  stands  below  the  cherry-tree  with  his  mouth 
open,  expecting  the  wind  to  blow  the  cherries  into  his 
mouth,  waits  a  long  time  hungry,"  he  meditated  senten- 
tiously ;  "I  will  shake  the  tree  and  gather." 

All  the  same,  the  rough  grip  and  kindly  "Come-and- 
help,"  or  "Stand-out-of-the-way"  manner  of  the  miller 
went  to  his  heart.  Indeed,  he  could  hardly  have  kept 
his  ground  at  La  Masane  without  it.  and  he  was  grateful 
in  proportion. 


The  White  Plume  245 

"They  think  little  of  me  because  I  look  young  and 
my  hair  curls,"  he  muttered,  as  he  tried  in  vain  to  smooth 
it  out  with  abundant  water,  "but  wait — I  will  show 
them!" 

And  the  time  for  showing  them  came  when  Jean-aux- 
Choux,  carefully  scouting  ahead,  thrust  his  head  over  a 
bank  of  gravel  and  reported  several  men  in  possession  of 
the  boat  which  Jean-Marie  had  so  carefully  anchored  in 
the  little  Fanal  Bay  just  round  the  point  out  of  sight  of 
the  Castle.  Worst  of  all,  one  of  the  captors  was  Don 
Raphael  Llorient  himself. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment,  the  last  individual  rear- 
guard of  the  little  party,  a  slim  young  lad  called  in  this 
chronicle  the  Abbe  John,  discovered  that  they  were  being 
tracked  from  behind.  They  had  indeed  walked  into  the 
sack  without  a  hole  at  the  other  end.  They  stood  between 
two  fires.  For  they  had  on  their  hands  good  old  Madame 
Amelie,  ready  at  the  first  discouragement  to  sink  down 
on  the  sand,  and  give  up  all  for  lost. 

He  dared  not  therefore  speak  openly.  Cautiously  the 
Abbe  John  called  the  miller  to  his  side,  and  imparted  his 
discovery. 

"A  quarter  of  an  hour  at  the  most,  and  they  will  have 
us !"  he  whispered. 

"Umm !"  said  the  Miller- Alcalde.  "I  suppose  we  could 
not — eh — you  and  I?  What  think  you?  I  can  strike 
a  good  buffet  and  you  with  your  point!  Are  you 
ready?" 

"Ready  enough,"  said  the  Abbe  John,  "but  they 
would  call  out  at  the  first  sight  of  us — indeed,  either 
crack  of  pistol  or  clash  of  sword  would  bring  up  Don 
Raphael  and  his  folk.  We  must  think  of  something  else. 
For  me  it  might  do,  but  there  is  your  mother  to  con- 
sider and  Claiie!" 


246  The  White  Plume 

"I  wish  it  had  been  the  bare  steel — or  else  the  cudgel," 
said  the  miller;  "I  am  no  hand  at  running  and  plotting!" 

But  the  Abbe  John  was. 

"Here,"  he  said  abruptly,  stripping  his  silk-lined  cloak 
from  his  shoulders,  "take  that.  Get  me  Claire's  lace  man- 
tilla and  her  wrapper  with  the  capuchin  hood.  I  have 
made  a  good  enough  maid  before  at  the  revels  of  carnival. 
They  always  chose  me  to  act  as  Joan  of  Domremy  at 
the  Sorbonne  on  Orleans  Day.  It  is  Claire  they  are 
after.  Moreover,  they  are  in  a  hurry.  Be  quick — bid 
her  give  them  to  you.  But  tell  her  nothing!" 

And  so  the  blunt  Alcalde-Miller  went  up  to  Claire, 
who  was  busily  supplying  consolation  to  Madame  Amelie. 

"Your  lace  mantilla,"  he  said,  "your  cloak  and  hood! 
Quick — we  have  need  of  them!"  he  said  abruptly. 
"Take  this." 

Now  Claire  had  served  too  long  an  apprenticeship  to 
dangers  and  strange  unexplained  demands  during  her 
father's  wanderings  to  show  any  surprise.  She  put  them 
on  the  miller's  arm  without  a  single  question.  It  was 
only  when  he  added,  "Now — put  this  on,"  and  threw 
the  silken  court-cloak  belonging  to  the  Abbe  John  over 
her  shoulders,  that  she  stammered  something. 

"This — why,  this — is — is " 

"Never  mind  what  it  is,"  growled  the  Miller-Alcalde. 
"At  any  rate,  it  will  not  bite  you,  and  you  may  need  it 
before  the  night  is  out!" 

And  so  without  a  good-bye — only  just  settling  the 
lace  mantilla  as  becomingly  as  possible  upon  his  head 
and  drawing  the  waist-ribbon  of  the  girl's  clo.ak  close 
round  his  middle,  the  Abbe  John,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  and  a  low-spoken  "Take  good  care  of  her"  to  the 
miller,  sauntered  carelessly  back  through  the  mjaze  of 
sand-hills  in  the  direction  of  these  three  good  and  faith- 


The  White  Plume  247 

ful  bloodhounds  of  the  Holy  Inquisition,  Felieu  the 
Esplugan,  Andres  the  Ape,  and  the  giant  Serra  of  the 
African  smile,  who  loved  his  work  for  his  work's  sake. 

And  between  his  teeth  John  d'Albret  muttered  these 
words,  "I  will  show  them." 

Also  once,  just  when  he  came  within  hearing  of  the 
stealthy  creep  of  the  pursuers,  he  added,  "And  I  will 
show  her !" 

He  did.  For  when  next  Claire  Agnew  looked  back, 
the  One  for  whom  she  looked  was  not. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

BISHOP,  ARCHBISHOP,   AND  ANGELICAL 
DOCTOR 

AT  sight  of  his  master  in  the  boat  Jean-aux-Choux 
turned  sharply  to  the  left.  Obviously  they  must  try  else- 
where. The  way  of  the  sea  was  shut  to  them  in  front ; 
the  enemy  was  clearly  awake  and  waiting  for  them 
there.  The  net  behind  had  not  had  time  to  be  drawn 
tight,  and  if  the  Abbe  John  proved  successful  in  deceiv- 
ing the  familiars  of  the  Holy  Office,  it  would  not  close. 
Still,  there  was  every  reason  for  haste.  There  was  no  dis- 
guising that  fact. 

Passing  behind  the  town  walls  as  swiftly  as  might  be, 
with  the  burden  of  Madame  Amelie  in  their  arms,  Jean- 
aux-Choux  halted  the  brothers  for  a  while  in  lee  of  a 
sheepfold  with  walls  high  enough  for  a  fort.  Then, 
passing  within,  he  appeared  presently  with  two  poles  and 
a  piece  of  sacking,  out  of  which  he  extemporised  a 
carrying  hammock.  He  and  his  comrades  used  it  for 
carrying  down  to  their  huts  and  shelters  such  wounded 
sheep  or  weakly  lambs  as  they  found  high  up  among 
the  mountains,  that  they  might  be  tended  back  to  health 
again. 

The  Senora  was  a  little  woman — a  mere  "rickle  of 
bones,"  in  Jean's  Scottish  phrase,  and  hardly  heavier 
than  a  stout  six  months'  lamb.  Indeed,  so  much  had 
the  flesh  faded  under  the  strain  of  her  constant  activity, 
that  the  restless  spirit  within  seemed  to  pulse  and  throb 
under  the  frail  envelope  like  a  new-taken  bird. 


The  White  Plume  249 

Jean-aux-Choux  took  the  head.  The  brothers  relieved 
each  other  at  the  feet — that  is  to  say,  the  Miller- Alcalde 
and  Don  Jordy.  After  one  attempt,  the  Professor 
acknowledged  that  the  chair  of  the  Sorbonne  had  unfitted 
him  for  such  exercise  upon  the  mountains. 

They  crossed  the  Elne  road  only  a  few  minutes  before 
the  familiars,  with  the  false  maid  mounted  on  Don  Jordy's 
white  mule,  went  past  peaceably,  trekking  their  way 
towards  Perpignan  and  the  Street  of  the  Money. 

It  was  clearly  unsafe  to  continue.  Yet  what  else  to 
do  ?  They  crouched  behind  a  pillar- rock  (what  in  Celtic 
lands  of  Ker  and  Pol  and  Tre  would  have  been  a  menhir) 
and  listened.  There  came  the  sound  of  hoofs,  the  jingle 
of  a  bridle.  A  white  shape  skirted  with  well-accustomed 
feet  the  phosphorescent  glimmer  of  the  path,  wet  with 
dew,  and  wimpling  upwards  towards  the  summit  of  the 
cape. 

"My  mule — the  bishop's  mule,"  muttered  Don  Jordy. 
"Oh,  the  villains !  Food  for  the  garrotte!" 

Then  he  comforted  himself  with  thoughts  of  vengeance. 

"Monseigneur  will  make  them  deliver,"  he  growled 
to  himself,  "for  White  Chiquita's  pretty  sake  if  not  for 
that  of  his  poor  notary.  He  does  not  greatly  love  the 
Inquisition  at  any  time.  He  believes,  and  with  justice, 
that  it  is  they  and  the  Jesuits  who  are  striving  to  take 
the  see-episcopal  from  ancient  Elne,  the  Illiberris  of  the 
ancients,  and  give  it  to  Perpignan — champignon  rather, 
the  mushroom  growth  of  a  night." 

But  Don  Jordy's  very  anathema  had  given  him  an 
idea. 

"What  if  it  were  possible — that  Monseigneur  would 
— yes,  he  has  great  power  in  what  is  hidden  from  the 
Holy  Office.  He  could  keep  my  mother  safe  in  his  palace 
till  we  have  the  girl  in  safety.  I  believe  he  would  do  it 


250  The  White  Plume 

for  me,  his  notary  and  registrar,  who  have  always  served 
both  him  and  the  see  with  fidelity." 

In  a  low  voice  he  made  his  proposition  to  his  com- 
panions. They  should  all  go  to  Elne.  He,  Don  Jordy, 
would  make  his  way  into  the  palace  of  my  Lord  Bishop. 
He  had  the  key  to  a  door  in  the  base  of  the  rock,  giving 
upon  stairs  that  turned  and  turned  till  one  was  almost 
giddy. 

There  they  would  leave  Madame  Amelie  till  happier 
times.  In  a  tdbl'ier  of  white,  she  might  well  and  naturally 
bear  rule  in  the  episcopal  kitchen,  of  which  the  waste  and 
expense  had  long  been  a  byword. 

To  this  Jean-aux-Choux  at  first  objected.  It  were 
best  to  hasten.  All  who  were  under  the  ban  of  the  Holy 
Office  must  get  out  of  Roussillon  altogether.  It  was  no 
place  for  them.  For  him  it  was  different,  of  course. 
None  suspected  him.  He  had  his  sheep  to  attend  to. 
For  the  present  his  comrade  did  what  was  necessary, 
believing  him  employed  on  his  master's  business.  Also, 
if  he  were  to  succor  and  protect  the  abandoned  bestial 
and  poultry-yard,  dear  to  the  Sefiora,  he  must  return  as 
swiftly  as  possible. 

Finally,  however,  he  also  was  brought  to  see  reason. 

Indeed,  the  growing  weakness  of  the  old  lady  seriously 
disquieted  every  one — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  Don 
Jordy  went  on  ahead  as  soon  as  the  black  mass  of  Elne 
hunched  itself  up  against  the  faint  pearl-grey  sheet 
which  was  hung  behind  the  sand-dunes  of  Argeles,  on  the 
way  of  the  sea. 

Grey,  pallid  day  was  beginning  to  break  when  he  re- 
turned, having  seen  and  heard  great  things. 

At  first  the  night-watchman  of  the  little  palace  had 
hesitated  to  intrude  upon  the  Bishop,  who,  he  said,  had 
company — no  other  than  the  learned  Doctor  Ange  de 


The  White  Plume  251 

Pas,  so  learned  that  he  scrupled  not  to  enter  into  dispute 
with  the  Vatican  itself,  so  hotly  that  Sixtus  V.,  at  first 
angered  by  his  stubbornness,  finally  made  a  saint  of  him 
before  his  time,  because  he  was  the  only  man  who  dared 
to  withstand  him  face  to  face.  "Also,"  said  the  watch- 
man, "there  was  another  who  had  come  from  the  south 
with  a  retinue,  now  lodged  in  the  cells  of  the  ancient 
monastery  of  the  Cordeliers." 

"His  name?"  Don  Jordy  demanded,  fearing  lest  it 
should  be  some  great  missioner  of  the  Inquisition  on  his 
rounds,  in  which  case  he  was  lost  indeed — and  most  likely 
all  those  who  were  with  him. 

"He  gave  no  name,"  said  Leucate  the  watchman,  "and 
his  face  was  covered.  But  he  knew  this  place  well  and 
spoke  of  Fernand  Doria,  where  certain  of  his  chief  men 
could  put  up,  and  also  of  the  way  to  the  ancient  Convent 
of  the  Cordeliers." 

This  news  somewhat  reassured  Don  Jordy,  and  he  bade 
Leucate  carry  up  his  message.  He  was  immediately 
bidden  to  enter  into  the  Bishop's  private  apartments. 
The  good  Onuphre  de  Reart,  last  Bishop  of  Elne,  was  a 
little  smiling  man,  with  a  sweet  obstinacy  in  his  expres- 
sion which  was  not  belied  by  the  good  fight  he  had  fought 
with  the  Inquisition  for  the  privileges  of  the  Church  in 
Roussillon  and  in  the  diocese  of  Elne. 

Doctor  Ange  de  Pas,  was,  of  course,  known  to  Don 
Jordy,  and  rose  to  give  him  greeting.  But  even  the  holy 
monk,  his  hand  crisped,  as  about  the  quill  with  which  he 
wrote  his  many  books,  showed  certain  signs  of  nervous- 
ness. The  Bishop  of  Elne  held  up  his  hand  as  if  to  halt 
Don  Jordy  in  what  he  was  about  to  say.  Then,  going 
to  the  purple  velvet  curtain  which  divided  his  audience- 
chamber  from  the  bedrooms,  he  announced  in  a  clear, 
unmistakable  voice,  "My  Lord  Cardinal  Archbishop !" 


252  The  White  Plume 

Upon  which,  with  smiling  dignity,  there  entered  the 
famous  Jean  Teres  Doria,  now  Archbishop  of  Tarragona 
and  Viceroy  of  all  Catalonia,  whom  the  Infanta  of  Spain 
had  caused  to  be  thus  advanced  only  four  years  ago, 
because  of  his  treatment  of  her  as  Bishop  of  Elne  when 
her  ship  was  wrecked  on  the  rocks  of  Collioure. 

"Ah,  Don  Jorge!"  said  the  great  prelate,  holding  out 
his  hand  for  the  notary  to  kiss,  "you  serve  early  and  late, 
as  of  yore.  Though  I  think  I  never  saw  you  in  my  house 
quite  so  belated  as  this." 

Then  all  suddenly,  finding  himself  in  the  company  of 
three  such  good  and  holy  men,  all  looking  so  kindly  upon 
him,  Don  Jordy  burst  into  tears. 

The  Archbishop  Doria  stepped  quickly  up  to  him,  say- 
ing, "Don  Jordy,  friend  of  mine,  you  knew  me  and  I 
knew  you,  when  I  was  only  your  neighbour  and  fellow- 
student,  Jean  Teres  Doria  of  Elne.  Tell  me  your  sorrow 
as  you  would  have  done  when  we  fought  with  burrs  and 
pine-cones  in  the  groves — I  for  Elne,  and  you  for  the 
honour  of  Collioure." 

"My  mother,"  said  Don  Jordy,  controlling  himself 
with  an  effort — "she  is  chased  from  her  house  by  the 
familiars  of  the  Holy  Office.  She  and  all  of  us !  Only 
she  is  old,  feeble,  pushed  beyond  her  strength.  She  can- 
not go  farther,  and  must  lie  down  and  die,  if  the  Bishop 
will  not  consent  to  receive  her  into  his  palace." 

And  he  went  on  to  tell  all  the  story  of  the  Professor's 
coming,  Don  Raphael's  suit,  and  Claire's  refusal — lastly, 
of  the  warning  that  had  been  given  concerning  the  action 
of  the  Inquisition. 

It  could  easily  be  observed  how,  at  that  dread  name, 
even  the  Archbishop  grew  grave.  There  was  no  power 
compared  to  that  of  the  Holy  Office  in  Spain — because 
the  Holy  Office  was  only  the  King  working  secretly,  do- 


The  White  Plume  253 

ing  lawless  things  under  cover  of  the  ample  robe  of 
Mother  Church. 

But  the  quiet  little  Cordelier,  the  Doctor  Ange,  with 
his  white  skin  and  tremulous  bird-like  hands,  only  smiled 
the  sweeter  as  he  listened. 

"I  fear  me,"  he  said,  "that  the  Bishop's  palace  is  too 
public  a  place  for  your  mother.  Now,  what  think  you? 
You  have  with  her  also  your  brother,  that  learned  Pro- 
fessor of  the  Sorbonne,  with  whom  it  would  please  me 
much  to  ravel  out  many  a  tangled  web  of  high  doctrine, 
according  to  the  last  interpretation  of  Paris — why,  there 
is  in  our  new  House  of  the  Cordeliers  ample  room  and 
space  for  your  mother — as  well  as  for  your  brother,  who 
can  don  our  robe  for  once  in  a  way.  My  friends  here 
will  doubtless  make  the  matter  easier  for  those  of  your 
party  continuing  their  way  to  the  north.  Nay,  do  not 
thank  me.  I  shall  expect  much  joy  from  the  acquaint- 
ance of  so  learned  a  man  as  your  brother,  though  (as  I 
have  heard)  he  mingles  too  much  earthly  learning  with 
the  pure  doctrine  of  Saint  Thomas  Aquinas !" 

The  Archbishop  Doria  and  his  successor  in  the  see 
of  Elne,  Bishop  Onuphre,  looked  at  each  other,  one  tak- 
ing the  other's  mind. 

"It  is  perhaps  as  good  a  solution  as  any,"  said  the 
former  meditatively ;  "however,  I  judge  that  you,  Don 
Jorge,  had  better  remain  at  your  post.  I  see  not  wherein 
even  the  Holy  Office  can  find  matter  against  you.  It  is 
a  pity  that  I  have  no  control  over  its  working.  The 
King  thinks  little  of  the  regular  clergy"  (at  this  the 
little  Cordelier  laughed).  "So  that  My  Lord  Cardinal 
Archbishop  of  Toledo,  Primate  of  all  Spain,  is  in  the 
power  of  the  meanest  familiar  of  the  Inquisition  who  may 
choose  to  lodge  an  information  against  him.  Neverthe- 
less, I  possess  something  of  the  Secular  Arm  in  this 


254  The  White  Plume 

province,  being  for  the  moment  Viceroy  of  the  King.  So 
that  I  judge  it  will  be  as  well — nay,  more,  it  will  look 
well — that  you  should  go  about  your  ordinary  business, 
sending  on  your  party  with  all  speed  to  the  frontier.  I 
will  give  them  a  protection  under  my  own  hand  and  seal." 

So  by  this  fortunate  intervention  of  the  great  Doria, 
Viceroy  and  Archbishop,  our  Claire's  path  was  smoothed 
France-wards,  and  Madame  Amelie  rested  securely  in 
the  newly-built  annex  of  the  Convent  of  the  Cordeliers. 
As  to  the  Professor,  her  son,  he  battled  daily  with  Doctor 
Ange  concerning  the  opinions  of  the  Angelical  Doctor — 
grace  free  and  grace  conditional,  Arianism  and  Supra- 
lapsarianism,  till  Ange  de  Pas,  who  had  friends  all  over 
the  world,  produced  as  a  peace-offering  the  leaves  of  a 
certain  curious  plant,  newly  brought  from  the  Western 
Indies,  the  smoke  of  which,  being  drunk  through  a  tube 
and  slowly  expelled  with  the  breath,  proved  a  famous 
composer  of  quarrels.  The  plant  was  called,  he  said, 
nicotiana,  but  was  so  rare  and  expensive  that,  had  he 
not  had  a  friend  Commander-in-chief  of  the  forces  in 
New  Spain,  their  philosophic  differences  might  have  gone 
on  for  ever. 

As  for  the  Abbe  John,  no  one  knew  what  had  become 
of  him — except,  that  is,  the  Miller- Alcalde  Jean-Marie, 
and  he  answered  nothing  to  Claire's  question.  Because 
him  also  the  devil  tempted. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
THE  PLACE  OF  EYES 

Two  systems  were  in  force  in  the  Street  of  the  Money  to 
convince,  to  convert,  and  to  change  the  stubborn  will. 

One,  the  A  B  C  of  all  inquisitors,  consisted  of  the 
indispensable  rack,  the  attractive  pulley  with  the  weights 
for  the  feet,  the  useful  hooks,  the  thumbkins,  the  red-hot 
pincers,  the  oil-bath,  and  the  water-torture.  Dom  Teruel 
and  Frey  Tullio,  with  the  aid  of  Serra  the  Murcian,  used 
these  as  a  carpenter  uses  his  tools,  coldly,  and  with 
method. 

But  the  finer  mind  of  Mariana,  working  for  political 
ends  rather  than  controverting  heresy  by  mere  physical 
methods,  had  evolved  a  more  purely  moral  torture.  A 
chamber  had  been  set  apart,  to  which  no  least!  noise, 
either  from  the  street  or  from  the  other  guests  of  the 
Holy  Office,  oould  possibly  penetrate.  The  walls  had 
been  specially  doubled.  Iron  door  after  iron  door  had  to 
be  unlocked  before  even  a  familiar  could  enter.  In  the 
space  between  the  walls  in  every  side  were  spy-holes. 
Painted  eyes  looked  down  from  the  ceiling,  up  from  the 
floor.  The  whole  chamber  was  flooded  day  and  night 
with  the  light  of  lamps  set  deep  in  niches,  so  that  the 
prisoner  could  not  reach  them.  All  that  he  could  ever 
see  was  the  placing  of  another  light  as  often  as  the  old 
burned  low. 

"There  is,"  Mariana  explained  the  matter  to  his  asso- 
ciates, "a  compulsion  working  in  the  minds  of  the  well- 
bred  and  well-born,  of  those  who  have  always  experienced 


256  The  White  Plume 

only  pleasantness  and  happy  society,  breathed  the  airs 
of  wood  and  mountain,  known  the  comradeship  of  street 
and  class-room  and  salle-d'armes.  Such  cannot  long  be 
without  some  one  to  whom  to  tell  their  thoughts.  For  this 
undipped  gallant,  two  or  three  weeks  will  suffice.  He 
has  the  gloss  still  on  his  wings.  Wait  a  little.  I  have  my 
own  way  with  such.  He  will  speak.  He  will  tell  us  both 
who  he  is  and  all  he  knows!  I  will  turn  him  inside  out 
like  a  glove." 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  Teruel,  shaking  his  head ;  "after 
the  third  fainting  on  the  rack,  when  they  see  Serra  oil- 
ing the  great  wheel — that  is  what  few  of  them  can  stand. 
There  is  virtue  in  it.  It  has  a  persuasive  force — yes, 
that  is  the  word,  a  blessed  persuasive  force — to  make  the 
most  stubborn  abjure  heresy  and  receive  the  truth!" 

The  Jesuit  smiled,  and  waved  a  plump,  womanish  hand. 

"I  have  a  better  means,  and  a  surer !"  he  said,  in  gentle 
reproof. 

They  looked  him  in  the  face.  But  as  often  as  it  came 
to  the  tug  of  wills,  this  smooth,  soft-spoken,  smiling 
priest,  with  his  caressing  voice,  was  master.  And  well 
they  knew  it.  He  also. 

"I  have  a  niece,"  Mariana  murmured;  "one  altogether 
devoted  to  the  service  of  the  Church  and  the  Society.  I 
am,  for  the  present,  her  nearest  parent  as  well  as  her 
spiritual  director " 

"Valentine  la  Nina?"  questioned  Teruel.  And  Frey 
Tullio  said  nothing,  only  Mariana,  ever  on  the  watch, 
caught  the  oily  southern  glitter  of  his  eyes,  wicked  little 
black  pools,  with  scum  on  each,  like  cooling  gravy. 

"Ay,  indeed,  Valentine  la  Nina,  even  as  you  say,"  re- 
sponded the  Jesuit  of  Toledo  calmly ;  "it  is  not  fair  that 
only  men  should  labour  for  the  good  of  Holy  Church. 
Did  not  Mary,  the  wife  of  Herod's  steward,  and  that 


The  White  Plume  257 

other  Mary,  minister  to  the  Son  of  the  Holy  Virgin  ?  It 
is  so  written.  If,  then,  sainted  women  followed  Him  in 
life,  watched  by  His  Cross,  and  prepared  His  body  for 
burial,  surely  in  these  evil  times,  when  the  Church  of 
Peter  trembles  on  its  rock,  we,  who  fight  for  the  faith, 
have  not  the  right  to  refuse  the  ministry  of  Valentine  la 
Nina  or  another  ?" 

And  so,  since  Mariana  was  of  Toledo  and  high  in 
favour  with  Philip  the  King,  and  with  the  Archbishop 
Primate  of  all  Spain,  besides  being  more  powerful  than 
the  General  of  his  own  Order,  Dom  Teruel  and  Frey 
Tullio  bowed  their  heads  and  did  as  they  were  commanded. 

"Give  you  the  order,"  said  Teruel  to  Mariana,  with 
a  faint,  hateful  smile,  for  he  would  have  preferred  Serra, 
a  newly-wetted  rope  and  a  slow  fire. 

But  this  was  by  no  means  Mariana's  way. 

"I  but  advise,"  he  said.  "How  can  I  do  otherwise, 
a  poor  Jesuit  wanderer,  dependent  on  your  bounty  for 
hospitality — I  and  my  niece.  I  fear  I  must  claim  also  a 
place  for  her  here,  when  she  leaves  the  house  and  protec- 
tion of  the  Countess  of  Livia." 

So  into  the  chamber  of  light  and  silence  went  the 
Abbe  John,  after  his  first  examination.  He  saw  around 
him  and  above  walls  and  ceilings  painted  all  over  with 
gigantic  human  eyes — the  pupil  of  each  being  hollow — 
and  watchers  were  set  continually  without,  or,  at  least, 
the  Abbe  John  thought  they  were.  Within  twelve  hours 
he  was  raging  madly  about  his  cell,  striving  to  reach  and 
shiver  those  watching  eyes  everywhere  about  him.  He 
kicked  at  the  inlaid  pavements.  He  tried  to  tear  away 
from  his  bed-head  and  from  the  foot  those  huge,  open 
eyes  with  the  dark,  watchful  pupils.  But  his  riding- 
boots  had  been  removed,  and  with  his  hempen  alpargatas 
he  could  do  nothing.  No  one  took  the  least  notice  of  his 


258  The  White  Plume 

cries.  Even  the  walls  seemed  echoless  and  dead,  save 
for  the  watching  eyes,  which,  after  the  first  day,  followed 
him  about  the  room  as  he  paced  from  end  to  end,  restless 
as  a  wild  creature  newly  caged. 

He  saw  them  in  his  sleep.  He  dreamed  of  eyes. 
They  chased  him  across  great  smoking  cities,  over  plains 
without  mark  or  bound,  save  the  brown  circle  of  the 
horizon,  through  the  thick  coverts  of  virgin  forests.  He 
could  not  shut  them  out.  He  could  not  escape  them. 
He  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  they  looked  in 
between  his  fingers,  parting  them  that  they  might  look. 
He  drew  his  cloak's  hood  about  his  brow,  he  heaped 
coverings  on  his  head.  It  was  all  in  vain.  He  began 
to  babble  to  the  walls,  till  he  realised  that  these  had 
ears  as  well  as  eyes.  On  the  fourth  day  he  wept  aloud. 
He  had  long  refused  to  eat,  though  he  drank  much.  He 
began  to  go  mad,  and  kept  repeating  the  words  to  him- 
self, "I  am  going  mad !  I  am  going  mad !" 

On  the  fifth  night  he  tried  to  dash  his  head  against  the 
wall.  He  fainted,  and  lay  a  long  time  motionless  on  the 
cold  floor,  till  suddenly,  becoming  aware  that  there  was 
a  painted  eye  underneath,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  in  that 
terrible  place  beset  with  eyes  behind  and  before. 

There  came  to  him  a  noise  of  unbarring  doors ;  the 
yellow  lamp-light  went  out  in  niche  after  niche. 

"Oh,  the  blessed  dark!"  cried  the  Abbe  John;  "they 
are  going  to  leave  me  in  the  dark !  I  shall  escape  from 
the  eyes." 

But  no;  his  tormentors  had  other  purposes  with  him. 
A  yet  greater  noise  of  rollers  and  the  clang  of  iron  ma- 
chinery, and  lo !  on  high  the  whole  roof  of  the  Place  of 
Eyes  fell  into  two  parts  (like  huge  eyelids,  thought  the 
Abbe  John  with  a  shudder).  The  sunshine  flooded  all 
the  upper  part  of  his  cell,  midway  down  the  walls.  The 


The  White  Plume  259 

sweet  morning  air  of  Spain  breathed  about  him.  He  felt 
a  cool  moisture  on  his  lips,  the  scent  of  early  flowers.  A 
bee  blundered  in,  boomed  round,  and  went  out  again  as 
he  had  come. 

The  Abbe  John  clutched  his  throat  as  if  at  the  point 
of  death.  He  thought  he  saw  a  vision,  and  prayed  for 
deliverance,  but  no  more  eyes — for  judgment,  but  no 
more  eyes — for  damnation  even,  but  no  more  eyes ! 

Then  he  turned  about,  and  close  by  the  great  iron  door 
a  woman  was  standing,  the  fairest  he  had  ever  seen — yes, 
fairer  even  than  Claire  Agnew,  as  fair  as  they  make  the 
pictured  angels  above  the  church  altars — Valentine  la 
Nina! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
VALENTINE  LA  NINA 

THE  girl  stood  smiling  upon  the  young  man,  a  spray 
of  the  great  scarlet  blossom  of  the  pomegranate  freshly 
plucked  and  held  easily  in  her  hand.  She  had  broken  it 
from  the  tree  in  the  courtyard  as  she  came  in.  The 
flowers  showed  like  handfuls  of  blood  splashed  upon  the 
bosom  and  neck  of  her  white  clinging  robe. 

"You  are  very  beautiful,"  said  the  Abbe  John,  his 
voice  no  more  than  a  hoarse  gasp ;  "what  are  you  doing 
here  in  this  place?  Tell  me  your  name.  I  seem  to  have 
seen  you  long  ago,  in  dreams.  But  I  have  forgotten — 
I  forget  everything!" 

Then,  without  taking  her  eyes,  mystically  amber  and 
gold,  softly  caressing  as  the  sea  and  as  changeful,  from 
the  young  man's  face,  she  beckoned  him  forward. 

"We  shall  speak  more  at  ease  in  another  place,"  she 
said,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  carelessly,  palm 
downwards,  as  if  he  had  been  her  brother,  and  they  were 
playing  some  lightheart  game,  or  taking  positions  for 
an  old-time  dance  of  woven  hands  and  measured  paces. 

Valentine  la  Nina  led  John  d'Albret  into  a  summer 
parlour,  equally  secure  from  escape,  being  surrounded 
by  the  high  fortress  walls  of  the  Hotel  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion, but  full  of  rich  twilight,  of  flowers,  of  broidery, 
and  of  faint  wafted  perfumes  from  forgotten  shawl  or 
dropped  kerchief,  which  told  of  a  woman's  abiding 
there. 

"Now,"  said  Valentine  la  Nina,  throwing  herself  back 


The  White  Plume  261 

luxuriously  on  a  wide  divan  of  Seville,  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her  head,  "tell  me  all  there  is  to  tell — keep  back 
nothing.  Then  we  will  take  counsel  what  is  best  to  be 
done !  I  have  not  forgotten,  if  you  have !" 

And  John  d'Albret,  exhausted  by  the  ceaseless  search- 
ing of  the  Eyes  into  his  soul,  and  the  need  of  the  dark 
which  would  not  come,  told  her  all.  To  which  Valentine 
la  Nina  listened,  and  saw  the  fear  fade  out  and  the 
reasonable  man  return.  But  as  John  d'Albret  spoke, 
something  moved  strangely  in  the  depths  of  her  own 
heart.  Her  face  flushed ;  her  temples  throbbed ;  her  hands 
grew  chill. 

"And  you  have  done  this  for  the  sake  of  a  woman — 
of  a  girl  ?"  she  said. 

"For  Claire  Agnew's  sake,"  the  Abbe  John  an- 
swered, still  uncertainly ;  "so  would  any  one — any  one 
who  loved  her !" 

Valentine  la  Nina  smiled,  stirring  uneasily  on  her  divan, 
and  as  she  smiled  she  sighed  also,  leaning  forward,  her 
great  eyes  on  the  youth. 

"Any  one?"  she  repeated,  "any  one  who  loved  her! 
Aye,  it  may  be  so.  She  is  a  happy  girl.  I  have  found 
none  such.  I  am  fair — I  should  be  loved.  Yet  I  have 
only  served  and  served  and  served  all  my  life — ah !" 

Suddenly,  with  a  quick  under-sob  and  an  outward 
drive  of  the  palm,  as  if  to  thrust  away  some  hateful 
thing,  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  caught  John  d'Albret  by 
the  wrist.  So  lithe  was  her  body  that  it  seemed  one 
single  gesture. 

"If  I  had  met  you  before  she  did,"  she  whispered 
fiercely,  "would  you  have  loved  me  like  that?  Answer 
me !  Answer  me !  I  command  you !  It  is  life  or  death, 
I  tell  you !" 

But  the  Abbe  John,  not  yet  himself,  could  only  stare 


262  The  White  Plume 

at  her  blindly.  The  girl's  eyes,  large  and  mystic,  held  him 
in  that  dim  place,  and  some  of  his  pain  returned.  He 
covered  his  face  with  both  hands. 

She  shook  him  fiercely. 

"Look  at  me — you  are  a  man,"  she  cried;  "say — am 
I  not  beautiful?  You  have  said  it  already.  If  you  had 
not  met  this  Huguenot — this  daughter  of  Geneva,  would 
you  have  loved  me — not  as  men,  ordinary  men,  love,  but 
as  you  have  loved,  with  a  love  strong  enough  to  brave 
prison,  torture,  and  death  for  me — for  me?" 

The  Abbe  John,  too  greatly  astonished  to  answer  in 
words,  gazed  at  the  strange  girl.  Suddenly  the  anger 
dropped,  the  fierce  curves  faded  from  the  lips  that  had 
been  so  haughty.  Her  eyes  were  soft  and  moist  with 
unshed  tears. 

Valentine  la  Nina  was  pleading  with  him. 

"Say  it,"  she  said,  "oh,  even  if  it  be  not  true — say  it! 
It  would  be  such  a  good  lie.  It  would  comfort  a  torn 
heart,  made  ever  to  do  the  thing  it  hates.  If  I  had  been 
a  fisher-girl  spreading  nets  on  the  sands,  a  shepherdess 
on  the  hills,  some  brown  sailor-lad  or  a  bearded  shep- 
herd would  have  loved  me  for  myself.  Children  would 
have  played  about  my  door.  Like  other  women,  I  would 
have  had  the  sweet  bitterness  of  life  on  my  lips.  I 
would  have  sorrowed  as  others,  rejoiced  as  others,  and, 
when  all  was  done,  turned  my  face  to  the  wall  and 
died  as  others,  my  children  about  me,  my  man's  hand 
in  mine.  But  now — now — I  am  only  poor  Valentine  la 
Nina,  the  tool  of  the  League,  the  plaything  of  politics, 
the  lure  of  the  Jesuits,  a  thing  to  be  used  when  bright, 
thrown  away  when  rusted,  but  loved — never! — no,  not 
even  by  those  who  use  me,  and,  in  using,  kill  me !" 

And  the  Abbe  John,  moved  at  sight  of  the  pain,  an- 
swered as  best  he  might. 


The  White  Plume  263 

"A  man  can  only  love  as  the  love  comes  to  him,"  he 
murmured.  "What  might  have  been,  I  do  not  know. 
I  have  thought  I  loved  many,  but  I  never  knew  that  I 
loved  till  I  saw  little  Claire  Agnew." 

"But  if  you  had  not — tell  me,"  she  sobbed ;  "I  will  be 
content,  if  you  will  only  tell  me." 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  John  d'Albret,  driven  into  a 
corner ;  "perhaps  I  might — if  I  had  seen  you  first." 

To  the  young  man  it  seemed  an  easy  thing  to  say — 
a  necessary  thing,  indeed.  For,  coming  fresh  from  the 
fear  and  the  place  of  torment,  he  was  glad  to  say  any- 
thing not  to  be  sent  thither  again. 

"But  say  it,"  she  cried,  coming  nearer  and  clasping 
his  arm  hard;  "say  it  all — not  that  you  might,  but 
that  you  would — with  the  same  love  that  goes  easily 
to  death,  that  I — I — I  might  escape.  Oh,  for  me,  I 
would  go  to  a  thousand  deaths  if  only  I  knew — surely 
— surely,  that  one  man  in  the  world  would  do  as  much 
for  me !" 

But  the  Abbe  John  had  reached  the  limit.  Not  even 
to  escape  the  Place  of  the  Eyes  could  he  deny 
his  love,  or  affirm  that  he  could  ever  have  loved  to  the 
death  any  but  his  little  Claire. 

"I  saw  her,  and  I  loved!"  he  said  simply — "that  is 
all  I  know.  Had  I  seen  you,  I  might  have  loved — that 
also  I  do  not  know.  More  I  cannot  say.  But  be  as- 
sured that,  if  I  had  loved  you,  not  knowing  the  other,  I 
should  have  counted,  for  your  sake,  my  poor  life  but  as 
a  leaf,  wind-blown,  a  petal  fallen  in  the  way." 

Valentine  la  Nina  nervously  crumpled  the  glorious  red 
and  fleshy  blossoms  of  the  pomegranate  clusters  in  her 
fingers  till  they  fell  in  blood-drops  on  the  floor. 

"You  are  noble,"  she  said ;  "I  knew  it  when  I  saw  you 
at  Collioure  on  the  hillside — more,  a  prince  in  your  own 


264  The   White  Plume 

land,  near  to  the  throne  even.  So  am  I — and  Philip 
the  King  himself  would  not  deny  me.  He  is  your  coun- 
try's enemy.  Yet  at  my  request  he  would  stay  his  hand. 
He  must  fight  the  English.  He  must  subdue  the  Low 
Countries.  That  is  his  oath.  But  if  you  will — if  you 
will — he  would  aid  the  Bearnais,  or  better  still,  you  your- 
self to  a  throne,  and  give  me — who  can  say  what? — per- 
haps this  very  Roussillon  for  a  dower.  For  I  am  close 
of  kin  to  the  King.  He  would  acknowledge  me  as 
such.  I  have  vowed  a  vow,  but  now  it  is  almost  paid; 
and  if  it  were  not  I  would  go  to  the  Pope  himself,  though 
I  walked  every  step  of  the  road  to  Rome !" 

"I  cannot — 1  cannot"  cried  John  d'Albret.  "Thank 
God,  I  am  not  of  the  first-born  of  kings,  whose  hands  are 
put  up  to  the  highest  bidder.  Where  I  have  loved,  there 
will  I  wed  or  not  at  all !" 

"Ah,  cruel!"  cried  Valentine  la  Nina,  stamping  her 
foot — "cruel,  not  only  to  me,  but  to  her  whom  you  say 
you  love.  Think  you  she  will  be  safe  from  the  Society, 
from  the  Holy  Office,  in  France?  There  is  no  rack  or 
torture  perhaps,  no  Place  of  Eyes.  But  was  Henry 
of  Valois  safe,  who  slew  the  Duke  of  Guise?  From 
whose  bosom  came  forth  Jacques  Clement?  My  uncle 
put  the  knife  in  his  hand  and  blessed  him  ere  he  went. 
For  me  he  would  do  more.  Think — this  Claire  of  yours 
is  condemned  already.  She  is  young.  By  your  own  tell- 
ing she  has  many  lovers.  She  will  be  happy.  I  know 
the  heart  of  such  maids.  Besides,  she  has  never 
promised  you  anything — never  humbled  herself  to  you 
as  I — I,  Valentine  la  Nina,  who  till  now  have  been  the 
proudest  maid  in  Spain !" 

"I  am  not  worthy,"  cried  the  Abbe  John.  "I  cannot ; 
I  dare  not ;  I  will  not !" 

"Ah,"  said  Valentine  la  Nina,  with  a  long  rising  in- 


The  White  Plume  265 

flection,  and  drawing  herself  back  from  him,  "I  have 
found  it  ever  so  with  you  heretics.  You  are  willing  to 
die — to  suffer — because  then  you  would  wear  the 
martyr's  crown,  and  have  your  name  commemorated — 
in  books,  on  tablets,  and  be  lauded  by  the  outcasts  of 
Geneva.  But  for  your  own  living  folk  you  will  do 
nothing.  With  all  Roussillon,  from  Salses  to  the  Pyre- 
nees, for  my  dowry  (Philip  would  be  glad  to  be  rid  of 
it — and  perhaps  also  of  me — my  friends  of  the  Society 
are  too  strong  for  him),  there  would  be  an  end  to  this 
prisoning  and  burning  and  torturing  through  the  land. 
Teruel  and  Frey  Tullio  we  would  send  to  their  own  place. 
By  a  word  you  could  save  thousands.  Yet  you  will  not. 
You  think  only  of  one  chit  of  a  girl,  who  laughs  at  you, 
who  cares  not  the  snap  of  her  finger  for  you !" 

She  stopped,  panting  with  her  own  vehemence. 

"Likely  enough,"  said  the  Abbe  John,  "the  more  is  the 
pity.  But  that  cannot  change  my  heart." 

"Was  her  love  for  you  like  mine  ?"  she  cried.  "Did  she 
love  you  from  the  first  moment  she  saw  you  ?  No !  Has 
she  done  for  you  what  I  have  done — risked  my  all — my 
uncle's  anger — the  Society's — that  of  the  Holy  Office 
even?  No! — No! — No!  She  has  done  none  of  these 
things.  She  has  only  graciously  permitted  you  to 
serve  her  on  your  knees — she,  the  daughter  of  a  spy,  a 
common  go-between  of  your  Huguenot  and  heretic 
princes !  Shame  on  you,  Jean  d'Albret  of  Bourbon,  you, 
a  cousin  of  the  King  of  France,  thus  to  give  yourself  up 
to  fanatics  and  haters  of  religion !" 

But  by  this  time  the  Abbe  John  was  completely  master 
of  himself.  He  could  carry  forward  the  interview  much 
more  successfully  on  these  lines. 

"I  am  no  Huguenot,"  he  said  calmly;  "more  is  the 
pity,  indeed.  I  have  no  claim  to  be  zealous  for  any 


266  The  White  Plume 

religion.  I  have  fought  on  the  Barricades  of  Paris  for 
the  Guise,  because  I  was  but  an  idle  fellow  and  there 
iwas  much  excitement  and  shouting.  I  have  fought  for 
the  Bearnais,  not  because  he  is  a  Huguenot,  but  be- 
cause he  is  my  good  cousin  and  a  brave  soldier — none  like 
him." 

Valentine  la  Nina  waved  her  hand  in  contempt. 

"None  like  him!"  she  exclaimed.  "Have  you  never 
heard  of  my  cousin  Alexander  of  Parma?  To  him  your 
Bearnais  is  no  better  than  a  ruffler,  a  banditti  captain,  a 
guerilla  chief.  If  you  must  fight,  why,  we  will  go  to  him. 
It  is  a  service  worth  a  thousand  of  the  other.  Then  you 
will  learn  the  art  of  war  indeed — 

"Aye,  against  my  countrymen,"  said  John  d'Albret, 
with  firmness.  Bit  by  bit  his  courage  was  coming  back 
to  him.  "I  am  but  a  poor  idlish  fellow,  who  have  taken 
little  thought  of  religion,  Huguenot  or  Catholic.  Once  I 
had  thought  she  would  teach  me,  if  life  had  been  given 
me,  and — and  she  had  been  willing.  But  now  I  must 
take  what  Fate  sends,  and  trust  that  if  I  die  untimeously, 
the  Judge  I  chance  to  meet  may  prove  less  stern  than 
He  of  the  Genevan's  creed,  and  less  cruel  than  the  God 
of  Dom  Teruel  and  the  Holy  Inquisition !" 

"Then  you  refuse  ?"  She  uttered  the  words  in  a 
low  strained  voice.  "You  refuse  what  I  have  offered? 
But  I  shall  put  it  once  more — honourable  wedlock  with 
an  honourable  maiden,  of  a  house  as  good  as  your  own, 
a  province  for  your  dower,  the  most  Catholic  King  for 
sponsor  of  your  vows,  noble  service,  an  it  like  you,  with 
the  greatest  captain  of  the  age,  the  safety  of  all  your  kin, 
free  speech,  free  worship,  the  entrance  of  these  thousands 
of  French  folk  into  France.  Ah,  and  love — love  such  as 
the  pale  daughters  of  the  north  never  dreamt  of " 

She  took  a  step  towards  him,  her  clasped  hands  pleading 


The  White  Plume  267 

for  her,  her  lips  quivering,  her  head  thrown  back  so  far 
that  the  golden  comb  slipped,  and  a  heavy  drift  of  hair, 
the  colour  of  ripe  oats,  fell  in  waves  far  below  her 
shoulders. 

"Do  not  let  the  chance  go  by,"  she  said,  "because  you 
think  you  do  not  love  me  now.  That  will  come  in  time. 
I  know  it  will  come.  I  would  love  you  so  that  it  could 
not  help  but  come !" 

"I  cannot — ah,  I  cannot !"  said  John  d'Albret,  his 
eyes  on  the  floor,  so  that  he  might  not  see  the  pain  he 
could  not  cure. 

The  girl  drew  herself  up,  clenched  her  hands,  and  with 
a  hissing  indraw  of  the  breath,  she  cried,  "You  cannot 
— you  mean  you  will  not,  because  you  love — the  other 
— the  spy's  daughter — of  whom  I  will  presently  make  an 
end,  as  a  child  kills  a  fly  on  a  window-pane — for  my 
pleasure !" 

"No,"  said  John  d'Albret  clearly,  lifting  his  head  and 
looking  into  the  angry  eyes,  flashing  murkily  as  the  sun- 
light flashes  in  the  deep  water  at  harbour  mouth  or  in 
some  estuary — "no,  I  will  not  do  any  of  the  things  you 
ask  of  me.  And  the  reason  is,  as  you  have  said,  because 
I  love  Claire  Agnew  until  I  die.  I  know  not  at  all  whether 
she  loves  me  or  not.  And  to  me  that  makes  no  matter 


"No,  you  are  right,"  cried  Valentine  la  Nina ;  "it  will 
indeed  make  no  difference.  For  by  these  words — they 
are  printed  on  my  heart — you  have  condemned  her,  the 
spy's  daughter,  to  the  knife,  and  yourself " 

"To  the  fires  of  the  Inquisition?"  demanded  the  Abbe 
John.  "I  am  ready !" 

"Nay,  not  so  fast,"  said  Valentine  la  Nina ;  "that  were 
far  too  easy  a  death — too  quick.  You  shall  go  to  the 
galleys  among  the  lowest  criminals,  your  feet  in  the 


268  The  White  Plume 

rotting  wash  of  the  bilge,  lingering  out  a  slow  death-in- 
life — slow — very  slow,  the  lash  on  your  back  and — no, 
no — I  cannot  believe  that  is  your  answer.  Here,  here  is 
yet  one  chance.  Surely  I  have  not  humbled  myself  only 
for  this?" 

The  Abbe  John  answered  nothing,  and  after  a  pause 
the  girl  drew  herself  up  to  her  height  and  spoke  to  him 
through  her  clenched  teeth. 

"You  shall  go  to  the  galleys  and  pray — ah,  you  say 
you  have  never  learned  to  pray,  but  you  will — you  will 
on  Philip's  galleys.  They  make  good  theologians  there ; 
they  practise.  You  will  pray  in  vain  for  death  that 
will  not  come.  And  I  when  I  wake  in  the  night  will 
turn  me  and  sleep  the  sweeter  on  my  pillow  for  the 
thought  of  you  chained  to  your  oar,  which  you  will  never 
quit  alive.  Ah,  I  will  teach  you,  Jean  d'Albret  of  the 
house  of  Bourbon,  cousin  of  kings,  what  it  is  to  love  the 
spy's  daughter  and  to  despise  me — me — Valentine  la 
Nina,  a  daughter  of  the  King  of  Spain !" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
THE  WILD  ANIMAL— WOMAN 

MARIANA  the  Jesuit  rose,  pen  in  hand,  to  embrace  his 
"niece"  as  she  entered  his  bureau.  There  was  a  laugh- 
ing twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  all  his  comfortable  little  pink- 
and-white  figure  shook  with  mirth. 

"Bravo — oh !  bravo !"  he  cried.  "Never — never  did  I 
suppose  our  little  Valentine  half  so  clever.  Why,  you 
turned  yonder  boastful  cockerel  outside  in.  Ha,  they 
teach  us  something  of  dissimulation  in  our  seminaries, 
but  we  are  children  to  you,  the  best  of  us — the  whole 
Gesu  might  sit  at  your  feet  and  take  lessons.  Even  Philip 
himself — were  it  not  for  his  semi-paternal  authority! 
Never  was  the  thing  they  call  love  better  acted.  I 
declare  it  was  a  great  moral  lesson  to  listen  to  you.  You 
made  the  folly  of  it  so  apparent — so  abject !" 

The  girl  was  still  pale.  The  rich  glow  of  health,  with- 
out the  least  colour  in  her  cheeks,  had  disappeared.  But 
the  eyes  of  Valentine  la  Nina  were  dangerously  bright. 

The  Jesuit  proceeded,  without  taking  note  of  these 
symptoms  of  disorder,  he  was  so  accustomed  to  use 
the  girl's  beauty  and  cleverness  to  bait  his  hooks.  By 
her  father  she  had  been  vowed  from  infancy  to  the  service 
of  the  Society.  Her  rank  was  known  only  to  a  few 
in  the  realm.  Save  on  this  condition  of  service,  Philip 
would  never  have  permitted  her  to  remain  in  his  kingdom 
of  the  Seven  Spains.  And,  indeed,  Valentine  la  Nina 
deserved  well  of  Philip  and  the  Gesu.  She  had  served  the 
Society  faithfully. 


270  The  White  Plume 

For  these  reasons  she  was  dear  as  anything  in  flesh 
and  blood  could  be  to  Mariana  the  Jesuit.  He  laughed 
again,  tasting  the  rare  flavour  of  the  jest. 

"A  rich  prize  indeed!"  he  chuckled.  "The  cousin  of 
the  Bearnais — a  candidate  of  the  League  for  the  crown 
of  France.  Ho,  ho !  Serving  on  the  galleys  as  a  Hugue- 
not !  You  were  right.  There  is  no  good  fuel  for  Father 
Teruel's  bonfires — he  is  meat  for  the  masters  of  Tullio 
the  Neapolitan  and  Serra  his  kinsman.  Was  there  ever 
such  sport?  You  do  indeed  deserve  a  province  and  a 
dower,  were  it  not  that  you  are  too  valuable  where  you 
are,  aiding  the  Cause — and  me,  your  poor  loving  'uncle' ! 
But  what  made  me  laugh  as  I  listened,  till  the  tears  came 
into  my  old  eyes,  was  to  hear  you — you,  to  whom  a  thou- 
sand men  have  paid  court — begging  for  the  love  of  that 
starved  and  terrified  young  braggart  in  his  suit  of 
silken  bravery,  tashed  with  prisons,  and  the  fear  of  the 
Place  of  Eyes  still  white  on  his  face !" 

Then  all  unexpectedly  Valentine  la  Nina  spoke.  Her 
tall  figure  seemed  to  overshadow  that  of  her  little,  dim- 
pling, winking  kinsman,  as  the  pouches  under  his  eyes 
shook  with  merriment,  while  his  mouth  was  one  wreathed 
smile,  and  he  pointed  his  beautiful,  plump,  white  fingers 
together  pyramidally,  as  if  measuring  one  hand  against 
the  other. 

"It  was  true,"  she  said  point-blank ;  "I  was  not  pretend- 
ing. I  did  love  him — and  I  do !" 

The  dimples  died  out  one  by  one  on  the  face  of  the 
historian,  Mariana  of  Toledo.  The  ripe  colour  faded 
from  the  cheekbone.  He  glanced  nervously  over  his 
shoulder  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  may  be  sheltering 
traitors  under  his  roof -tree. 

"Hush !"  he  whispered.  "Enough — now  you  have  car- 
ried the  jest  far  enough.  It  was  excellent  with  the 


The  White  Plume  271 

springald  D'Albret.  You  played  him  well,  like  a  trout 
on  an  angle.  But  after  all  we  are — where  we  are.  And 
Teruel  and  Tullio  are  not  the  men  to  appreciate  such  a 
jest." 

"I  was  never  farther  from  jesting  in  my  life,"  said 
Valentine  la  Nina ;  "I  love  him  as  I  never  thought  to 
love  man  before.  If  he  would  have  loved  me,  and  for- 
gotten that — that  woman — I  would  have  done  for  him  all 
I  said — aye,  and  more !" 

"You — Valentine — a  king's  daughter?" 

"Great  good  that  has  done  me !"  cried  the  girl ;  "I  must 
not  show  my  face.  My  father  (if,  indeed,  he  is  my 
father)  would  so  gladly  get  rid  of  me  that  he  would 
present  me  to  the  Grand  Turk  if  he  thought  the  secret 
would  hold  water.  As  it  is,  he  keeps  me  doing  hateful 
work,  lying  and  smiling,  smiling  and  lying,  like — like  a 
Jesuit !" 

"Girl,  you  have  taken  leave  of  your  senses — of  your 
judgment !"  said  her  "uncle"  severely.  "Do  you  not 
see  that  you  are  sealing  the  doom  of  the  man  for  whom 
you  profess  a  feeling  as  foolish  as  sudden?" 

"Neither  foolish  nor  sudden,"  retorted  the  girl  sullenly, 
her  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  gripping  the  top  bar 
like  a  weapon.  For  a  moment  the  little  soft  man  with 
his  eternal  smile 'might  have  been  her  victim.  She  could 
have  brained  him  with  a  blow — the  angle  of  that  solid 
oaken  seat  crashing  down  upon  the  shining  bald  head 
which  harboured  so  many  secrets  and  had  worked  out  so 
many  plots.  Valentine  la  Nina  let  the  moment  pass,  but 
while  it  lasted  she  might  very  well  have  done  it. 

"It  is  not  foolish,"  she  said,  relaxing  her  grip  for  an 
instant.  "I  am  a  human  creature  with  a  heart  that  beats 
so  many  times  a  minute,  and  a  skin  that  covers  the  same 
human  needs  and  passions — just  as  if  I  were  a  free  and 


272  The  White  Plume 

happy  girl — like — like  that  spy's  daughter  whom  he 
loves.  Neither  is  it  sudden.  For  I  saw  him  more  than 
once  on  the  hills  above  Collioure,  when  we  stayed  in  the 
house  of  that  cruel  young  monster  Raphael  Llorient.  I 
wandered  on  the  wastes  covered  with  romarin  and  thyme 
— why,  think  you?  *A  new-born  passion  for  nature,' 
you  said,  laughing.  'To  get  away  from  our  host,  Don 
Raphael,'  said  Livia  the  countess.  Neither,  good  people ! 
It  was  because,  stretched  at  length  on  a  bed  of  juniper 
and  lavender,  in  the  shadow  of  a  rock,  my  eyes  had  seen 
the  noblest  youth  the  gods  had  put  upon  the  earth.  He 
was  asleep." 

"You  are  mad,  girl,"  cried  Mariana,  as  loudly  as  he 
dared.  "These  are  not  the  words  of  the  Valentine  I 
knew!" 

"Surely  not,"  said  the  girl,  her  head  thrown  back,  her 
breast  forward,  and  breathing  deep,  "nor  am  I  the  Valen- 
tine I  myself  knew !" 

"You  dare  to  love  this  man — you — vowed  to  the  Church 
and  to  the  service  of  the  Gesu,  whose  secrets  you  hold? 
You  dare  not !" 

"I  dare  all,"  she  answered  calmly.  "This  is  not  a  mat- 
ter of  daring.  It  comes !  It  is !  I  did  not  make  it.  It 
does  not  go  at  my  bidding,  nor  at  yours.  Besides,  I  did 
not  bid  it  go.  For  one  blessed  moment  I  had  at  least  the 
sensation  of  a  possible  happiness !" 

"Nevertheless,  he  shamed  you,  rejected  you,  like  the 
meanest  whining  lap-dog  your  foot  spurns  aside  out  of 
your  path.  He  has  done  this  to  you — Valentine  la  Nina, 
called  the  Most  Beautiful — to  you,  the  King's  daughter, 
an  you  liked,  an  Infanta  of  Spain !  Have  you  thought 
of  that?" 

"Thought?"  she  said,  tapping  her  little  foot  on  the 
floor,  and  with  her  strong  right  hand  swaying  the  chair 


The  White  Plume  273 

to  and  fro  like  a  feather — "have  I  thought  of  it?  What 
else  have  I  done  for  many  days  and  weeks  ?  But  whether 
he  will  love  me  or  cast  me  off — the  die  is  thrown.  I  am 
his  and  not  another's.  I  may  take  revenge — for  that  is 
in  my  blood.  I  may  cause  him  to  suffer  as  he  has  made 
me  suffer — and  the  woman  also — especially  the  woman, 
the  spy's  daughter!  But  that  does  not  alter  the  fact. 
I  am  his,  and  if  he  would,  even  when  chained  to  the  oar 
of  the  galley,  a  slave  among  slaves — he  could  whistle  me 
to  his  side  like  a  fawning  dog !  For  I  am  his  slave — his 
slave !" 

The  last  words  were  spoken  almost  inaudibly,  as  if  to 
herself. 

"And  to  the  galleys  he  shall  go !"  said  the  Jesuit ;  "you 
have  said  it,  and  the  idea  is  a  good  one.  There  he  will 
be  out  of  mischief.  Yet  he  can  be  produced  if,  in  the 
time  to  come,  his  cousin  the  Bearnais,  arrived  at  the 
crown  of  France,  has  time  to  make  inquiries  after  him !" 

A  knife  glittered  suddenly  before  the  eyes  of  the  Jesuit. 
It  was  in  the  firm  white  hand  of  the  girl  vowed  to  the 
Society. 

"See,"  she  hissed,  letting  each  word  drop  slowly  from 
her  lips,  "see,  Doctor  Mariana,  my  uncle,  you  are  not 
afraid  of  death — I  know — but  you  do  not  wish  to  die 
now.  There  are  so  many  things  unfinished — so  much 
yet  to  do.  I  know  you,  uncle!  Now  let  me  take  my 
will  of  this  young  man.  Afterwards  I  am  at  your  service 
— for  ever — for  ever — more  faithful  than  before!" 

"How  can  I  trust  you?"  said  the  Jesuit;  "to-morrow 
you  might  go  mad  again !" 

"These  things  do  not  happen  twice  in  a  lifetime,"  said 
Valentine  la  Nina,  "and  as  for  Jean  d'Albret,  I  shall  put 
him  beyond  the  reach  of  any  second  chance !" 

Her  uncle  nodded  his  head.    He  knew  when  a  woman  has 


274  The  White  Plume 

the  bit  between  her  teeth,  and  though  he  had  a  remedy 
even  for  such  cases,  he  judged  that  the  present  was  not 
the  time  to  use  it. 
So  Valentine  la  Nina  went  out,  the  knife  still  in  her 

hand. 

***** 

The  Jesuit  of  Toledo  threw  himself  back  on  his  writing- 
chair  and  wiped  his  brow  with  a  handkerchief. 

"Ouff!"  he  cried,  emptying  his  chest  with  a  gust  of 
relief;  "this  is  what  it  is  to  have  to  do  with  that  wild 
animal,  Woman !  In  Madrid  they  tame  the  tiger  till  it 
takes  victuals  from  its  keeper's  very  hand.  He  is  its 
master,  almost  its  lover;  I  have  seen  the  tiger  arch  its 
back  like  a  cat  under  the  caress.  It  sleeps  with  the  arm 
of  the  keeper  about  its  neck !  Till  one  day — one  day — 
the  tiger  that  was  tamed  falls  upon  the  tamer,  the  master, 
the  lover,  the  friend!  So  with  a  woman.  Have  I  not 
trained  and  nurtured,  pruned  and  cared  for  this  soul  as 
for  mine  own?  She  was  tame.  She  knew  no  will  but 
mine.  Clack!  In  a  moment,  at  sight  of  a  comely  youth 
in  a  court  suit  asleep,  as  Endymion  on  some  Latmian 
steep,  she  is  wild  again.  Better  to  let  her  go  than  perish, 
keeping  her." 

Mariana  listened  a  while,  but  the  chamber  of  his  work 
was  as  far  from  the  lugubrious  noises  of  the  den  of  Dom 
Teruel  as  if  it  had  been  the  Place  of  Eyes  itself.  Neither 
could  he  hear  any  sound  from  the  little  summer  parlour 
which  had  been  put  at  the  service  of  his  niece. 

The  old  worldly-wise  smile  came  back  upon  his  lips. 

"It  is  none  of  my  business,  of  course,"  he  murmured, 
"but  it  strikes  me  that  the  youth  D'Albret  had  better 
say  his  prayers — such,  that  is,  as  he  can  remember.  I, 
for  one,  would  not  care  twice  to  anger  Valentine  la 
Nina!" 


The  White  Plume  275 

He  thought  a  while,  and  then  with  a  grave  air  he 
added,  "If  I  were  a  man  of  the  world  I  would  wager 
ten  golden  ounces  to  one  that  within  five  minutes  Master 
D'Albret  knows  more  about  eternity  than  the  Holy 
Father  himself  and  all  his  College  of  Cardinals.  Well, 
better  so!  Then  she  will  come  back  to  us.  She  has 
served  us  well,  Valentine  la  Nina,  and  now,  having  drunk 
the  cup — now  she  will  serve  us  better  than  ever,  or  I 
know  nothing  of  womankind !" 

But  Mariana,  though  he  stood  long  with  his  ear  glued 
to  the  crack  of  the  door,  could  distinguish  no  sound 
within  the  summer  parlour  which  Valentine  la  Nina  had 
entered  to  look  for  the  Abbe  John. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

THE    VENGEANCE   OF    VALENTINE 
LA  NINA 

WHEN  Valentine  la  Nina  left  him  in  the  summer  parlour 
where  their  interview  had  taken  place,  the  Abbe  John 
made  no  attempt  to  free  himself.  He  seemed  still  half- 
unconscious,  and,  indeed,  proceeded  without  rhyme  or 
reason  to  make  some  repairs  in  the  once  gay  court  suit, 
exactly  as  if  he  had  been  seated  in  his  tent  in  the  camp 
of  the  Bearnais. 

As  yet  he  had  no  thought  of  escape.  He  was  in  the 
fortress  of  the  Inquisition.  The  influence  of  the  Place  of 
Eyes  was  on  him  still.  To  escape  appeared  an  impossi- 
bility to  his  weakened  mind.  Indeed,  he  thought  only  of 
the  strange  girl  who  had  just  talked  with  him.  Was  she 
indeed  a  king's  daughter,  with  provinces  to  bring  in 

dower,  or No,  she  could  not  lie.  He  was  sure  of 

that.  She  did  not  lie,  certainly,  decided  the  Abbe  John, 
with  natural  masculine  favour  towards  a  beautiful 
woman.  A  girl  like  that  could  not  have  lied.  Mad — per- 
haps, yes,  a  little — but  to  lie,  impossible. 

So  in  that  quiet  place  he  watched  the  slow  wheeling 
of  the  long  checkered  bars  of  the  window  grille,  and 
the  shadows  made  by  the  branches  of  the  Judas  tree  in 
the  courtyard  move  regularly  across  the  carpet.  One  of 
the  leaves  boarded  his  foot  as  he  looked,  climbed  up  the 
instep,  and  made  a  pretty  temporary  shifting  upon  the 
silken  toe. 

The  Abbe  John  had  resumed  his  customary  position 


The  White  Plume  277 

of  easy  self-possession — one  ankle  perched  upon  the 
opposing  knee,  his  head  thrown  far  back,  his  dark  hair 
in  some  disorder,  but  curling  naturally  and  densely,  none 
the  less  picturesque  because  of  that — when  Valentine  la 
Nina  re-entered. 

He  rose  at  once,  and  in  some  surprise.  She  held  a 
knife  in  her  hand,  and  her  face  carried  something  about 
it  of  wild  and  dangerous,  a  kind  of  storm-sunshine,  as  it 
seemed. 

"Hum,"  thought  the  Abbe  John,  as  he  looked  at  her; 
"I  had  better  have  stayed  in  the  Place  of  Eyes !  I  see 
not  why  all  this  should  happen  to  me.  I  am  an  easy 
man,  and  have  always  done  what  I  could  to  content  a 
lady.  But  this  one  asks  too  much.  And  then,  after  all, 
now  there  is  Claire !  I  told  her  so.  It  is  very  tiresome  1" 

Nevertheless  he  smiled  his  sweet,  careless  smile,  and 
swept  back  his  curls  with  his  hand. 

"If  I  am  to  die,  a  fellow  may  as  well  do  it  with  some 
grace,"  he  murmured.  "I  wish  I  had  been  more  fit — if 
only  Claire  had  had  the  time  to  make  me  a  better  man !" 

Yet  it  is  to  be  feared  that  even  in  that  moment  the 
Abbe  John  thought  more  of  the  process  (as  outlined  in 
his  mind  with  Claire  as  instructress )  than  of  the  very  de- 
sirable result. 

What  the  thoughts  of  Valentine  la  Nina  were  when 
she  left  the  presence  of  her  uncle  could  hardly  be  defined 
even  to  her  own  mind.  But  seeing  this  young  man  so 
easy,  so  debonair  in  spite  of  his  dishevelled  appearance, 
the  girl  only  held  out  her  left  hand.  A  faint  smile,  like 
the  sun  breaking  momentarily  through  the  thunder- 
clouds, appeared  on  her  lips. 

"I  was  wrong,"  she  said ;  "let  me  help  you  only — I  ask 
no  more.  Come !" 

And  without  another  word  she  led  him  into  a  narrow 


278  The  White  Plume 

passage,  between  two  high  walls.  They  passed  door 
after  door,  all  closed,  one  of  them  being  under  the  cham- 
ber of  Mariana,  in  which  he  sat  like  a  spider  spinning 
webs  for  the  Society  of  the  Gesu.  What  might  have  hap- 
pened if  that  door  had  been  suddenly  opened  in  their 
faces  also  remains  a  mystery.  For  Valentine's  arm  was 
strong,  and  the  dagger  her  hand  held  was  sharp. 

However,  as  it  chanced,  the  doors  remained  shut,  so 
that  when  they  came  to  a  little  wicket,  of  solid  iron  like 
all  the  rest,  the  steel  blade  of  the  dagger  still  shone 
bright. 

Then  Valentine  la  Nina  snatched  from  a  nail  the  long 
black  mantle,  with  which  any  who  left  the  House  of  the 
Holy  Office  by  that  door  concealed  from  the  curious  their 
rank  or  errand.  She  flung  it  about  John  d'Albret's 
shoulders  with  a  single  movement  of  her  arm. 

"I  do  what  I  can,"  she  said;  "yield  me  the  justice  to 
allow  that.  I  am  giving  you  a  chance  to  return  to  her. 
There — take  it — now  you  are  armed!" 

She  gave  him  the  knife,  and  the  sheaf  from  which  she 
had  drawn  it  in  her  uncle's  bureau. 

"And  now,  bid  me  farewell — no  thanks — I  do  not  want 
them !  You  will  not,  I  know,  forget  me,  and  I  only  ask 
you  to  pray  that  I  may  be  able  to  forget  you !" 

The  Abbe  John  stooped  to  kiss  her  hand,  but  she 
snatched  it  behind  her  quickly. 

"I  think  I  deserve  so  much,"  she  said  softly,  holding 
up  her  face,  "not  even  she  would  deny  me !" 

And  the  Abbe  John,  quieting  his  soul  by  the  vow  of 
necessity,  future  confession,  and  absolution,  kissed  Valen- 
tine la  Nina. 

She  gave  one  little  sobbing  cry,  and  would  have  fallen, 
had  he  not  caught  her.  But  she  shook  him  off,  striking 
angrily  at  his  wrist  with  her  clenched  hand. 


The  White  Plume  279 

"No!  No!  No!"  she  cried;  "go — I  bid  you — go,  do 
not  heed  me.  I  am  well.  They  may  be  here  any  moment. 
They  are  ever  on  the  watch.  It  cannot  be  long.  Go.  I 
am  repaid.  She  has  never  risked  as  much  for  you !  Lock 
the  door  without !" 

And  she  pushed  him  into  the  street,  shut  the  door,  and 
fell  in  a  white  heap  fainting  behind  it,  as  John  d'Albret 
turned  the  key  outside. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
SAVED  BY  SULKS 

WHEN  the  so-called  uncle  of  Valentine  la  Nina,  Mariana 
the  Jesuit,  found  that  even  his  acute  ears  could  distin- 
guish no  sound  within  the  darkened  parlour  of  his  niece, 
he  did  what  he  had  often  done  before.  He  opened  the 
door  with  the  skill  of  an  evil-doer,  and  peered  through 
the  crack.  The  evening  sun  struck  on  a  spray  of  scat- 
tered blooms  which  Valentine  had  thrown  down  in  her 
haste — grenadine  flowers,  red  as  blood — upon  a  broidery 
frame,  the  needle  stuck  transversely,  an  open  book  of  de- 
votion, across  which  the  shadows  of  the  window  bars 
slowly  passed,  following,  as  on  a  dial  of  illuminated 
capitals,  the  swift  westering  of  the  sun.  But  he  heard 
no  sound  save  the  flick-flick  of  the  leaves  of  the  Judas 
tree  against  the  window,  in  the  light  airs  from  the 
Canigou,  already  damp  with  the  early  mist  of  the  foot- 
hills. 

The  Jesuit  listened,  carefully  opened  the  door  a  little 
more  widely,  and  listened  again,  holding  his  hand  to  his 
lips.  Still  only  the  stirring  air  and  the  leaves  that 
tapped.  Mariana  drew  a  long  breath  and  stepped  within. 
The  room  was  empty. 

Then  he  brought  his  hand  hard  down  on  his  thigh, 
and  turned  as  if  to  cry  a  hasty  order.  He  stopped,  how- 
ever, before  the  words  found  vent. 

"She  has  freed  him — fled  with  him,  the  jade!"  he  mur- 
mured; "she  was  playing  to  me  also — what  a  woman — 
ah,  what  a  woman !" 


The  White  Plume  281 

Then  admiration  took  and  held  possession  of  him — a 
kind  of  connoisseur's  envy  in  the  presence  of  a  master- 
piece of  guile.  The  great  Jesuit  felt  himself  beaten  at 
his  oAvn  weapons. 

"Used  for  sanctified  ends,"  he  murmured,  "what  a 
power  she  would  be !"  And  again,  "What  a  woman !" 

But  the  order  did  not  leave  his  lips.  He  felt  that  it 
were  better  to  leave  the  matter  as  it  was.  If  only  he 
could  find  Valentine  la  Nina,  no  one  would  know  of  her 
part  in  the  prisoner's  escape.  It  would  be  put  down  to 
the  carelessness  of  the  watchers.  The  principal  familiars 
were  at  their  work  deep  in  the  caves  of  the  Inquisition. 
The  eyes  in  the  prisoner's  cell  were  painted  eyes  only — 
their  effect  merely  moral.  None  had  seen  John  d'Albret 
go  into  the  summer  parlour  of  Valentine.  None  had 
heard  her  interview,  stormy  as  it  was,  with  her  uncle. 
They  had  other  things  to  do  in  the  House  of  the  Street 
of  the  Money.  If  only,  then,  he  could  find  La  Nina. 
All  turned  on  that. 

"Ah,"  he  thought  suddenly,  "the  key!  She  has  the 
key  of  the  little  door  giving  upon  the  ancient  bed  of  the 
Tet." 

And,  hastening  down  the  passage  by  which,  a  few 
minutes  before,  Valentine  la  Nina  had  led  the  Abbe  John, 
he  stumbled  upon  his  niece,  fallen  by  the  gate,  her  white 
dress  and  white  face  sombre  under  the  dusk  of  vine- 
leaves,  which  clambered  over  the  porch  as  if  it  had  been 
a  lady's  bower. 

But  the  key  was  not  in  her  hand.  With  the  single 
flash  of  intuition  he  showed  in  the  matter,  John  d'Albret 
had  thrown  it  away,  and  it  now  reposed  in  the  bed  of  the 
Tet,  not  half  a  mile  from  the  lost  seal  of  the  Holy  Office 
which,  some  time  previously,  his  friend  Jean-aux-Choux 
Jiad  so  obligingly  disposed  of  there. 


282  The  White  Plume 

The  Jesuit,  in  order  to  keep  up  his  credit  in  the  house 
of  his  friends,  was  obliged  to  carry  his  niece  to  her  sum- 
mer bower,  and  leave  her  there  to  recover  in  the  coolness 
and  quiet.  Then  he  put  on  his  out-of-doors  soutane, 
and  passed  calmly  through  the  main  portal  to  dispatch 
a  messenger  of  his  own  Order  to  the  frontier  with  a 
description  of  a  certain  John  d'Albret,  evaded  from  the 
prison  of  the  Holy  Office  in  the  Street  of  the  Money 
at  Perpignan — who,  if  caught,  was  by  no  means  to  be 
returned  thither,  but  to  be  held  at  the  disposition  of 
Father  Mariana,  chief  of  the  Order  of  the  Gesu  in  the 
North  of  Spain,  and  bearing  letters  mandatory  to  that 
effect  from  the  King  himself. 

"For  the  present  he  is  gone  and  lost,"  he  murmured, 
as  he  went  back.  "The  minx  has  outwitted  me" — here 
he  chuckled,  and  all  the  soft  childish  dimples  came  out 
— "yet  why  should  I  complain?  It  was  I  who  taught 
her.  Or,  rather,  to  say  the  truth,  I  outwitted  myself — 
I,  and  that  incalculable  something  in  women  which 
wrecks  the  wisdom  of  the  wisest  men !" 

And,  comforting  himself  with  these  reflections,  Mari- 
ana returned  alone  to  the  House  of  the  Holy  Office  in 
the  Street  of  the  Money,  which,  of  necessity,  he  entered 
by  the  main  door. 

Now  that  buzzed  like  a  hive  which  had  been  silent  and 
deserted  enough  when  he  went  out.  The  Jesuit  stood  in' 
apparent  bewilderment,  his  lips  moving  as  if  to  ask  a 
question.  He  could  hear  Dom  Teruel  storming  that  he 
would  burn  every  assistant,  every  familiar  in  the  build- 
ing, from  roof  to  cellar,  while  Frey  Tullio  and  Serra, 
the  huge  Murcian,  made  tumultary  perquisition  into 
every  chamber  in  search  of  the  runaway. 

"Hold  there — I  will  open  for  you,"  commanded  Mari- 
ana, as  he  saw  that  they  were  approaching  the  door 


The  White  Plume  283 

within  which  lay  Valentine.  "I  will  go  in,  and  you  can 
follow.  But  let  no  one  dare  to  disturb  the  repose  of  the 
lady,  my  niece.  Or — ye  know  well  the  seal  and  mandate 
of  the  King  concerning  her !" 

Mariana  went  softly  in,  not  closing  the  door,  and  hav- 
ing satisfied  himself  that  all  was  well,  he  beckoned  the 
inquisitors  to  approach.  Valentine  la  Nina  lay  on  the 
oaken  settle,  her  head  on  the  pillow,  exactly  as  he  had 
placed  her,  but  thanks  to  the  few  drops  from  the  phial 
which  he  had  compelled  her  to  swallow,  she  was  now  sleep- 
ing peacefully,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling  with  her 
measured  breathing. 

The  men  stood  a  moment  uncertain,  perhaps  a  little 
awestruck.  Serra  would  have  retreated,  but  the  sus- 
picious Neapolitan  walked  softly  across  and  tested  the 
bars  of  the  window.  They  were  firmly  and  deeply  enough 

sunk  in  the  stone  to  convince  even  Frey  Tullio. 

*  *  *  *  * 

So  it  chanced  that  while  the  messengers  of  the  Gesu 
sped  northward  to  the  frontier  with  orders  to  arrest  one 
Jean  d'Albret,  a  near  relative  of  the  Bearnais,  clad  in 
frayed  court-suit  of  pale  blue,  and  even  while  the  couriers 
of  the  Holy  Office  posted  in  the  same  direction  seeking  a 
criminal  whom  it  was  death  to  shelter  or  succour,  the  Abbe 
John,  looking  most  abbatical  in  his  decent  black  cloak, 
passed  out  of  the  city  by  the  empty  bed  of  the  Tet,  the 
same  which  it  had  occupied  before  the  straight  cut  known 
as  the  Basse  led  it  to  southward  of  the  town.  Then — 
marvel  of  marvels — the  hunted  man  turned  to  the  south 
and  made  across  the  hills  in  the  direction  of  the  House  of 
La  Masane  upon  the  slopes  of  the  hills  behind  Collioure. 

And  as  he  went  he  communed  with  himself. 

"I  will  show  her !"  affirmed  the  Abbe  John  grimly  (for 
there  was  a  hot  and  lasting  temper  under  that  light 


284  The  White  Plume 

exterior,  perhaps  that  of  the  aboriginal  Bourbon,  who  to 
this  day  "never  learns  and  never  forgives"),  "I  will 
show  her!  If  I  loved  her  as  an  ordinary  man,  I  would 
hasten  to  follow  and  overtake  her!  But  she  is  safe  and 
has  no  need  of  me.  If  she  has  any  thought  for  me — any 
care"  (he  did  not  say  "any  love"),  "it  will  be  none  the 
worse  for  keeping.  I  will  go  back  to  Jean-aux-Choux. 
He  was  to  return  and  care  for  all  that  remained  at  La 
Masane.  Well,  surely  he  is  no  braver  than  I.  What  he 
does  I  can  do.  I  will  go  and  help  him.  Also,  I  shall 
be  able  to  keep  an  eye  on  that  rascal,  Raphael  Llorient !" 

And  so,  with  these  excellent  intentions  he  turned  his 
face  resolutely  to  the  south — a  determination  which  com- 
pletely threw  his  pursuers  off  the  scent.  For  it  was  a 
natural  axiom  in  Spanish  Roussillon  that  whosoever  em- 
broiled himself  with  the  powers-that-were  in  that  province 
made  instantly,  by  sea  or  by  land,  for  the  nearest  French 
border. 

Thus  was  John  d'Albret  saved  by  the  Bourbon  blood 
of  his  mother,  or  by  his  own  native  cross-grained  temper. 
In  short,  he  sulked.  And  for  the  time  being,  the  sulking 
saved  his  neck. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  MAS  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 

IT  was  a  day  of  "mistral"  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhone — 
high,  brave,  triumphant  mistral,  the  wind  of  God  sent  to 
sweep  out  the  foul  odours  of  little  tightly-packed  towns 
with  tortuous  streets,  to  dry  the  good  rich  earth  after 
the  rain,  and  to  call  forth  the  corn  from  the  corn-land, 
the  grapes  from  the  ranged  vines,  and  to  prove  for  the 
thousandth  time  the  strength  and  endurance  of  the  misty, 
dusty,  grey-blue  olive  trees,  that  streamed  away  from 
the  northeast  like  a  faint-blown  river  of  smoke. 

A  brave  day  it  was  for  those  who  loved  such  days — of 
whom  was  not  Claire  Agnew — certainly  a  brave  day  for 
the  whirling  wheels,  the  vast  bird-pinions  of  Jean- 
Marie's  new  windmills  on  the  mountain  of  Barbentane. 

Jean-Marie  found  his  abode  to  his  taste.  At  first  he 
had  installed  Claire  with  a  decent  Proven9al  couple  at  the 
famous  cross-roads  called  in  folk-speech  "Le  Long  le 
Chemin,"  till  he  should  find  some  resting-place  other 
than  the  ground-flour  of  the  creaking  and  straining 
monsters  where  he  himself  spread  his  mattress,  and  slept, 
bearded  and  night-capped,  among  his  rich  farina  dust 
and  the  pell-mell  of  bags  of  corn  yet  to  be  ground. 

By  the  time,  however,  that  Madame  Amelie  with  Pro- 
fessor Anatole  was  able  to  reach  France  (thanks  to 
the  care  of  the  good  Bishop  of  Elne,  and  the  benevolence 
of  the  more  secular  powers  set  in  motion  by  the  Viceroy 
of  Catalonia),  a  new  Mas  had  been  bought.  The  gold 
laid  carefully  up  with  Pereira,  the  honest  Hebrew  of 


286  The  White  Plume 

Bayonne,  had  been  paid  out,  and  the  scattered  wanderers 
had  once  more  a  home,  secure  and  apart,  in  the  fairest 
and  quietest  province  of  France. 

Nay,  more,  though  the  way  was  long,  the  cattle-tracks 
across  the  lower  Canigou  were  so  well  known  and  so 
constantly  followed  that  Jean-aux-Choux  had  been  able 
to  bring  forward  the  most  part  of  Dame  Amelie's  bestial. 
Even  her  beloved  goats  bleated  on  the  rocks  round  the 
Mas  of  the  mountain.  The  fowls  indeed  were  other,  but 
to  the  common  eye  even  they  seemed  unchanged,  for 
Jean-Marie  had  been  at  some  pains  to  match  them  before 
the  arrival  of  his  mother.  Doves  roo-cooed  about  the 
sheds  and  circled  the  tall  pigeon-cote  on  its  black  pole 
with  flapping  wings. 

The  house  mistress  was  coming  home. 

That  day  Madame  Amelie  was  to  arrive  with  her  son, 
the  Professor,  and  Jean-aux-Choux  for  an  escort.  And 
then  at  last  Claire  would  learn — what  she  had  been  wil- 
fully kept  in  ignorance  of  by  Jean-Marie — the  reason 
for  the  sudden  desertion  of  the  Abbe  John  on  the  sea- 
shore at  Collioure. 

There  had  been  a  struggle  long  and  mighty  within 
the  stout  breast  of  the  Miller-Alcalde  before  he  could 
bring  himself  to  play  the  traitor.  After  all  (so  he 
argued  with  his  conscience),  he  was  only  keeping  his 
promise.  John  d'Albret  had  bidden  him  be  silent. 
Nevertheless,  when  he  saw  Claire's  wan  and  anxious  face, 
he  was  often  prompted  to  speak,  even  though  by  so  do- 
ing he  might  lose  all  hope  of  securing  a  mistress  for 
the  new  Mas  of  the  Mountain,  who  in  course  of  time 
would  succeed  Madame  Amelie  there. 

The  grave,  strong,  sententious  ex-Alcalde  had  al- 
lowed no  lines  of  meal-dust  to  gather  in  the  frosty  curls 
of  his  beard  since  he  had  brought  Claire  Agnew  to 


The  White  Plume  287 

France.  Busy  all  day,  he  had  rejoiced  in  working  for 
her.  Then,  spruce  as  any  love-making  youth,  he  had 
promenaded  lengthily  and  silently  with  her  in  the 
twilight,  looking  towards  the  distant  sea,  across  which 
from  the  southward  his  mother  and  his  brothers  were  to 
come. 

The  Miller  Jean-Marie  loved — after  a  fashion,  his  own 
silent,  dour,  middle-aged  fashion — the  young  girl  Claire 
Agnew,  whom  he  called  his  "niece"  in  that  strange  land. 
For  in  this  he  followed  the  example  of  his  brother,  judg- 
ing that  what  was  right  for  a  learned  Professor  of  the 
Sorbonne  could  not  be  wrong  for  a  rough  miller,  earning 
his  bread  (and  his  "niece's")  by  the  turning  of  his 
grindstones  and  the  gigantic  whirl  of  his  sails. 

Still,  he  had  never  spoken  his  love,  but  on  this  final 
morning  the  miller  had  not  gone  forth.  He  was  deter- 
mined to  speak  at  last.  His  mother  and  brother  were 
soon  to  arrive.  The  mistral  drave  too  strong  for  work. 
He  had  indeed  little  corn  to  grind — nothing  that  an 
hour  earlier  on  the  morrow  would  not  put  to  rights. 
Then  and  there  he  would  speak  to  Claire.  At  long  and 
last  he  was  sure  of  himself.  His  courage  would  not, 
as  usual,  ooze  away  from  his  finger  nails.  He  and  she 
were  alone  in  the  newly-furnished  rooms  of  the  Mas  of 
the  Mountain — for  only  a  few  portable  items  such  as 
his  mother's  chair  and  the  ancient  pot-bellied  horologe 
had  been  brought  in  a  tartana  from  La  Masane  to  the 
little  harbour  of  Les  Saintes  Maries,  where  the  big  mos- 
quitoes are. 

"It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,"  began  Jean- 
Marie,  even  more  sententiously  than  usual.  "I  have  heard 
you  read  that  out  of  your  Bible  of  Geneva — do  you  be- 
lieve it,  Claire?" 

"Indeed  I  do,"  said  the  girl,  looking  up  brightly ;  "I 


288  The  White  Plume 

have  longed — ah,  how  I  have  longed — all  these  weeks — 
for  your  mother !" 

"I  was  thinking  of  myself !"  said  the  miller  heavily. 

"Ah,  well,  that  will  soon  be  at  an  end,"  returned 
Claire;  "I  am  sorry,  but  I  did  my  best.  I  have  often 
heard  you  sigh  and  sigh  and  sigh  when  you  and  I  walked 
together  of  the  evening.  And  I  knew  I  was  no  company 
for  you.  I  was  too  young  and  too  foolish,  was  it  not  so? 
But  now  you  will  have  your  mother  and  your  brother, 
the  Professor,  who  is  learned.  He  knows  all  about  how 
to  grow  onions  according  to  the  methods  of  Virgil !  He 
told  me  so  himself !" 

The  big  ex- Alcalde  looked  doubtfully  sidelong  at  his 
little  friend.  He  was  not  a  suspicious  man,  and  usually 
considered  Claire  as  innocent  as  a  frisking  lambling. 
But  now — no,  it  could  not  be.  She  was  not  making  fun 
of  him — of  the  man  who  had  done  all  these  things,  who 
had  brought  her  in  safety  by  paths  perilous  to  this  new 
home! 

So  he  very  wisely  decided  to  take  Claire's  words  at  their 
face  value. 

"My  mother  is  my  mother,"  he  said,  deciding  that  the 
time  had  come  at  last,  and  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained 
by  putting  it  off.  "Doctor  Anatole  is  my  elder  brother, 
and  as  for  me,  I  have  all  the  family  affections.  But  a 
man  of  my  age  needs  something  else !" 

"What,  another  windmill?"  cried  Claire;  "well,  I 
will  help  you.  I  saw  such  a  splendid  place  for  one 
yesterday,  right  at  the  top  of  the  rocky  ridge  they 
call  Frigolet.  It  is  not  too  high,  yet  it  catches  every 
wind,  and  oh — you  can  see  miles  and  miles  all  about — 
right  to  the  white  towers  of  Aries,  and  away  to  the 
twin  turrets  of  Chateau  Renard  among  the  green  vine- 
yards. There  is  no  such  view  in  all  the  mountains. 


The  White  Plume  289 

And  I  will  go  up  there  every  day  and  knit  my  stocking !" 

"Oh,  if  only  it  were  my  stocking!"  groaned  the  mis- 
erable, tongue-tied  miller,  "then  I  might  think  about  the 
matter  of  the  windmill." 

Foiled  in  a  direct  line,  he  was  trying  to  arrive  at  his 
affair  by  a  side-wind. 

But  Claire  clapped  her  hands  joyously,  glad  to  get 
her  own  way  on  such  easy  terms. 

"Of  course,  Jean-Marie,  I  will  knit  you  a  pair  of 
hose — most  gladly — winter  woollen  ones  of  the  right 
Canigou  fashion '* 

"I  did  not  mean  one  pair  only,"  said  the  miller,  with 
a  slightly  more  brisk  air,  and  an  attempt  at  a  knowing 
smile,  "but  for  all  my  life!" 

"Come,  you  are  greedy,"  cried  Claire;  "and  must 
your  mother  go  barefoot — and  your  brother  the  Pro- 
fessor, and  Don  Jordy,  and " 

She  was  about  to  add  another  name,  which  ought  to 
have  been  that  of  Jean-aux-Choux,  but  was  not.  She 
stopped,  however,  the  current  of  her  gay  words  swiftly 
arrested  by  that  unspoken  name. 

"Jean-Marie,  answer  me,"  she  said,  standing  with  her 
back  resolutely  to  the  door,  "there  is  a  thing  I  must 
know.  Tell  me,  as  you  are  an  honest  man,  what  became 
of  Jean  d'Albret  that  night  on  the  sand-dunes  at  Colli- 
oure?  It  is  in  my  mind  that  you  know  more  than  you 
have  told  me.  You  do  know,  my  brave  Alcalde!  I  am 
sure  of  it.  For  it  was  you  who  came  to  borrow  my  hood 
and  mantle,  also  my  long  riding-cape,  to  give  to  him. 
And  I  have  never  seen  them  since.  If,  then,  this  Abbe 
John  is  a  thief  and  a  robber,  you  are  his  accomplice, 
nothing  better.  Come — out  with  it !" 

Jean-Marie  stood  mumbling  faintly  words  without  order 
or  significance. 


290  The  White  Plume 

Claire  crossed  her  arms  and  set  her  back  to  the  oaken 
panels.  The  miller  would  gladly  have  escaped  by  the 
window,  but  the  sill  was  high.  Moreover,  he  felt  that 
escalade  hardly  became  either  his  age  or  habit  of  body. 

Therefore,  like  many  another  in  a  like  difficulty,  he 
took  refuge  in  prevarication — to  use  which  well  requires, 
in  a  man,  much  practice  and  considerable  solidity  of 
treatment.  Women  are  naturally  gifted  in  this  direc- 
tion. 

"He  bade — I  mean  he  forbade — me  to  reveal  the 
matter  to  you !" 

"Then  it  had  to  do  with  me!"  she  cried,  fixing  the 
wretched  man  with  her  forefinger.  "Now  I  have  a  right 
— I  demand  to  know.  I  will  not  stay  a  moment  longer 
in  the  house  if  I  am  not  told." 

As  she  spoke  Claire  turned  the  key  twice  in  the  lock,  ex- 
tracted it,  and  slid  it  into  her  pocket.  These  are  not  the 
usual  preliminaries  for  quitting  a  house  for  ever  in  hot 
indignation.  But  the  ex-Alcalde  was  too  flustered  to  no- 
tice the  inconsistency. 

"Speak !"  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot.  And  the  broad, 
serious-faced  Jean-Marie  found,  among  all  his  wise 
saws  and  instances,  none  wherewith  to  answer  her. 
"Where  did  he  go,  and  what  did  he  do  with  my  long 
cloak  and  lace  mantilla?"  she  demanded.  Were 
they  a  disguise  to  provide  for  his  own  safety — the 
coward !" 

The  miller  flushed.  Up  till  now  he  had  sheltered 
himself  behind  the  Abbe  John's  express  command  to 
say  nothing.  Now  he  must  speak,  and  this  proud 
girl  must  take  that  which  she  had  brought  on  her  own 
head.  It  was  clear  to  Jean-Marie,  as  it  had  been  to 
numerous  others,  that  she  had  no  heart.  She  was  a  block 
of  ice,  drifted  from  far  northern  seas. 


The  White  Plume  291 

"Well,  since  you  will  have  it,  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said, 
speaking  slowly  and  sullenly,  "but  do  not  blame  me 
if  the  news  proves  unwelcome.  Jean  d'Albret  bor- 
rowed your  cloak  and  mantilla  so  that  he  might  let 
himself  be  taken  in  your  place — so  as  to  give  you 
— you — you — he  cared  not  for  the  others — time  to 
escape  from  the  familiars  of  the  Inquisition  sent  to  take 
you!" 

He  nodded  his  head  almost  at  each  word  and  opened 
his  hand  as  if  disengaging  himself  from  further  respon- 
sibility. He  looked  to  see  the  girl  overwhelmed.  But 
instead  she  rose,  as  it  were,  to  the  stature  of  a  goddess, 
her  face  flushed  and  glorious. 

"Tell  it  me  again,"  she  said  hoarsely,  even  as  Valen- 
tine la  Nina  had  once  pleaded  to  be  told ;  "tell  me  again 
— he  did  that  for  me?" 

"Aye,  for  you !  Who  else  ?"  said  the  miller  scornfully 
— "for  whom  does  a  man  do  anything  but  for  a  silly  girl 
not  worth  the  trouble !" 

She  did  not  heed  him. 

"He  went  to  the  death  for  me — to  save  me — he  did 
what  none  else  could  have  done — saying  nothing  about 
it,  bidding  them  keep  it  from  me,  lest  I  should  know! 
Oh,  oh !" 

The  miller  turned  away  in  disgust.  He  pronounced 
an  anathema  on  the  hearts  of  women.  But  she  wheeled 
him  round  and,  laying  her  hands  on  both  his  shoulders, 
flashed  wet  splendid  eyes  upon  him,  the  like  of  which 
he  had  never  seen. 

"Oh,  I  am  glad — I  am  glad !"  she  cried.  "I  could  kiss 
you  for  your  news,  Jean-Marie !" 

And  she  did  so,  her  tears  dropping  on  his  hands. 

"This  thing  I  do  not  understand!"  said  the  miller  to 
himself,  when,  no  longer  a  prisoner,  he  left  Claire  to  sink 


292  The  White  Plume 

her  brow  into  a  freshly-lavendered  pillow  in  her  own 
chamber. 

And  he  never  would  know. 

Yet  Valentine  la  Nina  would  nave  done  the  same  thing. 
For  in  their  hearts  all  women  wish  to  be  loved  "like 
that."  - 

The  word  is  their  own — and  the  voice  in  which  they 
say  it. 


CHAPTER  XLI 
"AND   LAZARUS   CAME  FORTH!" 

THIS  was  all  of  the  most  cheerful  for  John  d'Albret. 
To  be  loved  with  wet  glad  eyes  by  the  woman  for  whom 
you  have  done  brave  deeds  is  the  joy  of  life.  Only  to 
taste  its  flavour,  she  herself  must  tell  you  of  it.  And 
John  d'Albret  was  very  far  from  the  Mas  of  the  Moun- 
tain of  Barbentane.  He  did  not  feel  the  dry,  even  rush 
of  the  high  mistral,  steady  and  broad  as  a  great  ocean 
current — yet  how  many  times  more  swift.  The  wind  that 
fanned  his  heated  temples  was  the  warm  day  wind  of 
Africa,  coming  in  stifling  puffs  as  from  an  oven,  caus- 
ing the  dust  to  whirl,  and  lifting  the  frilled  leaves  of 
the  palms  like  a  woman's  garments.  At  night,  on  the 
contrary,  the  humid  valley-winds  stealing  down  from  the 
Canigou  made  him  shiver,  as  he  crouched  in  the  ancient 
sheepfolds  and  rude  cane-built  shelters  where  he  had 
expected  to  find  Jean-aux-Choux. 

But  these  were  deserted,  and  charge  of  his  troop 
taken  over  by  another.  The  house  of  La  Masane  had 
been  put  to  sack — partly  by  those  who  had  come  to  take 
away  the  more  portable  furniture  for  the  tartana  bound 
for  Les  Santes  Maries,  and  also  in  part  at  a  later  date 
by  the  retainers  of  the  Lord  of  Collioure.  Several  times, 
from  his  hiding-place  on  the  mountain,  John  d'Albret 
had  observed  Raphael  Llorient  wandering  idly  about 
the  abandoned  house  of  La  Masane,  revolving  new  plots 
or  brooding  on  the  manner  in  which  the  old  had  been 
foiled. 


294         -          The  White  Plume 

As  Jean-aux-Choux  did  not  return,  the  Abbe  John 
waxed  quickly  weary  of  the  bare  hillside,  where  also  he 
was  in  constant  danger  of  discovery  from  some  of  Jean- 
aux-Choux's  late  comrades.  These,  however,  contented 
themselves  chiefly  with  surveying  their  flocks  from 
convenient  hill-tops,  or  at  most,  in  launching  a  couple  of 
swift  dogs  in  the  tracks  of  any  wanderers.  But  John 
knew  that  these  very  dogs  might  easily  at  any  moment 
lead  to  his  discovery,  if  they  smelt  out  the  reed-bed  in 
which  it  was  his  habit  to  lie  hid  during  the  day. 

Meantime  the  Abbe,  with  needle  and  thread  drawn 
from  Jean-aux-Choux's  stores,  had  busied  himself  in  re- 
pairing the  ravages  prison-life  had  made  in  his  apparel. 
And  with  his  habitual  handiness,  begun  in  the  Bedouin 
tents  of  the  Latin  quarter,  and  continued  in  the  camps  of 
the  Bearnais,  he  achieved,  if  not  complete  success,  at 
least  something  which  suggested  rather  a  needy  young 
soldier,  a  little  battered  by  the  wars,  than  a  runaway 
prisoner  from  the  dungeons  of  the  Holy  Office. 

His  aspect  was  rendered  still  more  martial  by  Jean- 
aux-Choux's  long  Valaisian  sword  (with  "Achille  Serre, 
of  Sion"  engraved  upon  the  blade),  which  hung  from 
a  plain  black  leather  waist-belt,  broad  as  the  palm  of  the 
hand.  The  Abbe  John,  regarding  himself  at  dawn  in 
the  spring  near  the  chapel  of  the  Hermitage,  remarked 
with  pleasure  that  during  his  sojourn  upon  the  mountain 
his  moustache  had  actually  attained  quite  respectable  pro- 
portions. As  for  his  beard,  it  still  tarried  by  the  way, 
though  he  was  pleased  to  say  that  in  order  to  be  re- 
spectable he  must  seek  out  a  hostelry  and  find  there  re- 
freshment and  a  razor — "If,"  he  added ;  "mine  host  does 
not  handle  the  blade  himself" — an  accomplishment  which 
was  not  at  all  uncommon  among  the  Bonifaces  of 
Roussillon. 


The  White  Plume  295 

So  leaving  the  town  and  castle  of  Collioure  away  to 
the  left,  and  far  below  him,  John  d'Albret  struck  across 
the  tumbled  rocky  country  where  the  last  bastions  of  the 
Pyrenees  break  down  to  meet  the  chafe  of  Midland  sea. 
He  travelled  by  night,  and  as  it  was  moonlight,  made  good 
enough  going.  It  was  pleasant  and  dry.  The  mountain 
wind  cooled  him,  and  many  a  time  he  paused  to  look  down 
from  the  grey-white  rocks  upon  the  sweep  of  some  little 
bay,  pebbly-beached,  its  fringe  of  sand  and  surf  dazzling 
white  beneath  the  moon.  He  heard  the  sough  and  rattle 
as  the  water  arched,  foaming  a  moment,  plashed  heavily, 
and  then  retired,  dragging  the  rounded  stones  down- 
ward in  its  suck. 

John  d'Albret  meant  to  strike  for  Rosas,  where  he  knew 
he  might  always  hope  to  find  some  French  boats  come  in 
from  the  pilchard  and  sardine  fisheries  about  Ivitza  and 
the  Cape  of  Mallorca.  He  hoped  for  shelter  on  one  of 
these.  There  would  certainly  be  countrymen  of  his, 
drinking  and  running  at  large  on  the  beach  of  Rosas. 
With  them  he  would  make  his  bargain  in  money  or  love, 
according  to  the  province  from  which  they  hailed — the 
Norman  for  money,  the  Gascon  for  love,  and  the  Proven- 
9al  for  a  little  of  both. 

There  was  also  an  inn  at  Rosas — the  Parador  of  the 
Chevelure  d'Or.  Some  few  ventas  were  scattered  along 
the  sea-front,  hard  to  be  distinguished  from  the  white 
fishermen's  cottages,  save  for  the  evening  noises  which 
proceeded  from  them  when  the  crews  of  the  vessels  in  the 
bay  came  ashore  to  carouse.  Altogether  no  better  place 
for  getting  away  from  the  realms  of  King  Philip  seemed 
possible  to  John  d'Albret. 

The  Bay  (or  Gulf)  of  Rosas  is  one  of  the  noblest  har- 
bours in  the  world — fifteen  Spanish  leagues  from  horn 
to  horn,  when  you  follow  the  indentations  of  the  coast 


296  The  White  Plume 

So  at  least  avers  the  Geographer-Royal.  But  it  is  to  be 
suspected  that  his  legs  either  wandered  or  that  he  meas- 
ured some  of  the  course  twice  over.  The  Bay  of  Rosas 
could  contain  all  the  navies  of  the  world.  A  notable 
harbour  in  peace  or  war,  with  its  watch-tower  at  either 
side  and  its  strong  castle  in  the  midst,  it  was  no  incon- 
siderable place  in  the  reign  of  the  Golden  Philip. 

Even  in  these  last  years  when  the  gold  was  becoming- 
dim,  when  its  late  array  of  war-ships  had  mostly  found 
a  resting-place  on  the  rocky  skerries  of  Ireland  or  the 
Hebrides,  there  were  sometimes  as  many  as  six  or  eight 
king's  ships  in  the  bay — a  fact  which  John  d'Albret  had 
omitted  to  reckon  in  his  forecast  of  chances  concerning 
the  harbourage  of  Rosas. 

The  landlord  of  the  Parador  was  a  jovial,  bustling  man 
— a  type  not  Spanish  but  purely  Catalan.  In  the  rest  of 
Spain  your  landlord  shows  himself  little,  if  at  all.  Gen- 
erally you  serve  yourself,  and  if  you  want  anything  you 
have  not  brought,  you  buy  it  in  the  town  and  descend  to 
the  kitchen  to  cook  it.  But  the  host  of  the  Inn  of  Rosas 
was  omnipresent,  loquacious,  insistent,  not  to  be  abashed 
or  shaken  off. 

He  met  the  Abbe  John  on  the  doorstep,  and  taking 
in  at  a  glance  his  frayed  court  suit,  his  military  bearing, 
and  the  long  sword  that  swung  at  his  heels,  the  landlord 
bowed  low,  yet  with  vigilant  eyes  aslant  to  measure  the 
chances  of  this  young  ruffler  having  a  well-filled 
purse. 

"Your  Excellency,"  he  cried,  "you  do  honour  to  your- 
self, whoever  you  may  be,  by  coming  to  seek  lodgings 
at  the  hostel  of  La  Cabeladura  d'Oro,  as  we  say  in  our 
Catalan.  Doubtless  you  have  come  seeking  for  a  place 
and  pay  from  Philip  our  king.  A  place  you  may  have 
for  the  asking — the  pay  not  so  surely.  It  behoves  me 


The  White  Plume  297 

therefore  to  ask  whether  you  desire  to  eat  in  my  house  at 
the  Table  Solvent  or  at  the  Table  Expectant?" 

"I  do  not  gather  your  meaning,  mine  host,"  said  John 
d'Albret  haughtily. 

"Nay,  I  am  a  plain  man,"  said  the  landlord,  "and  you 
may  read  my  name  above  my  door — Sileno  Lorent  y 
Valvida.  That  tells  all  about  me.  Therein,  you  see, 
you  have  the  advantage  of  me.  I  know  nothing  about 
you,  save  that  you  arrive  at  my  door  with  a  cocked  bonnet 
and  a  long  sword." 

John  d'Albret  felt  that  it  was  no  time  to  resent  this 
Catalan  brusquerie.  Indeed,  he  himself  was  enough  of 
a  Gascon  to  respect  the  man's  aplomb.  For  what  would 
be  rudeness  intentional  in  a  Castilian,  in  a  man  of  Cata- 
lonia is  only  the  rough  nature  of  the  borderer  coming 
out.  So  the  Abbe  John  answered  him  in  kind,  using 
the  Languedocean  speech  which  runs  like  a  kind  of 
Lingua  Franca  from  Bayonne  to  Barcelona. 

"I  am  for  the  Table  Solvent.  Bite  on  that,  Master 
Sileno,  and  the  next  time  be  not  so  suspicious  of  a 
soldier  who  has  fought  in  many  campaigns,  and  hopes  to 
fight  in  many  another !  Now,  by  my  beard  which  is  yet 
to  be,  give  me  a  razor  and  shaving-tackle,  that  I  may 
make  myself  fit  to  call  upon  the  Governor — while  do 
you,  Master  Sileno,  be  off  and  get  a  good  dinner 
ready !" 

The  landlord  pocketed  the  coin  as  an  asset  towards  the 
lengthy  bill  he  saw  unrolling  in  his  mind's  eye. 

"Our  Lord  Governor  the  Count  of  Livia  is  at  present 
with  the  King  in  Madrid,"  he  said,  "so  I  fear  that  you 
will  be  compelled  to  await  his  return,  that  is,  if  your 
business  be  with  him,  or  has  reference  to  any  of  the  ships 
in  the  harbour,  or  is  connected  with  supplies  or  stores 
military." 


298  The  White  Plume 

Senor  Don  Sileno,  of  the  Chevelure  d'Or,  felt  that  he 
had  given  his  guest  quite  sufficient  latitude  for  entering 
into  an  explanation.  But  the  Abbe  John  only  thrust  the 
hilt  of  his  sword  hard  down,  till  the  point  cocked  itself 
suggestively  under  the  landlord's  nose  as  he  hurried  his 
back  upon  him. 

"My  business  is  with  the  Governor,"  he  said  shortly, 
"and  if  your  house  prove  a  good  one  and  your  table  well 
supplied,  I  may  indeed  be  content  to  await  his  return !" 

"This  bantling  mayoral,"  muttered  the  landlord,  "keeps 
his  mask  up.  Very  well — so  much  the  better,  so  long  as 
he  pays.  None  gives  himself  airs  in  the  house  of  Don 
Sileno  Lorent  y  Valvidia,  hosteller  of  Rosas,  without 
paying  for  it!  That  is  the  barest  justice.  But  me- 
thinks  this  young  boaster  of  many  campaigns  and  the 
long  sword  might  have  a  new  suit  of  clothes  to  go  and 
see  the  Governor  withal.  Yet  I  am  not  sure — fighting  is 
a  curious  trade.  A  good  cook  is  not  always  known  by 
the  cleanliness  of  his  apron." 

At  this  moment  the  Abbe  John  roared  down  the  stairs 
for  hot  water. 

"Coming,  your  Excellency !"  answered  the  host,  making 
a  wry  face.  "All  that  you  desire  shall  be  in  your  cham- 
ber as  fast  as  my  scullions'  legs  can  bring  it." 

Shaved,  reorganised  as  to  his  inner  man,  daintied  as 
to  his  outer,  the  Abbe  John  looked  out  of  the  window  of 
the  Golden  Chevelure  upon  a  sleeping  sea.  The  Parador 
was  a  little  house  with  a  trellised  flower-garden  running 
down  to  the  beach,  and  sheltered  from  the  heat  of  the 
sun  by  vine-leaves  and  trembling  acacias. 

"That  is  a  strange  name  you  have  given  your  inn," 
said  the  Abbe  John,  taking  some  oil  from  the  salad-bowl 
and  burnishing  the  hilt  of  his  sword  with  a  rag,  as  be- 
came a  good  cavalier.  He  had  the  sign  of  the  Golden 


The  White  Plume  299 

Tresses  held  by  Sileno  Lorent  y  Valvidia  under  his  eyes  as 
he  spoke. 

"You  think  so,  sir?"  said  the  landlord,  his  former 
brusquerie  returning  as  soon  as  it  was  a  question  of 
property.  "That  shows  you  are  unacquainted  with  the 
history  of  the  country  in  which  you  desire  to  practise 
your  trade  of  war !" 

"I  am  none  so  entirely  ignorant  of  it  as  you  suppose," 
said  John  d'Albret. 

"Yes,  as  ignorant  as  my  carving-fork,"  said  the  land- 
lord, pointing  with  that  useful  and  newly-invented  piece 
of  cutlery  to  the  sign  below.  "Now  if  you  are  a  man 
of  the  pen  as  well  as  of  the  sword,  what  would  you  draw 
from  that  sign  ?" 

"Why,"  said  the  Abbe  John,  smiling;  "that  you  are 
named,  curiously  enough,  Sileno — that  your  father's 
name  was  Lorent  and  your  mother's  Valvidia — that  you 
are  tenant  of  a  well-provisioned  inn  called  with  equal 
curiosity  the  Golden  Chevelure,  and  that  you  lodge  (as 
you  put  it)  'both  on  horseback  or  on  foot.'  That  is  a 
good  deal  of  printing  to  pay  for  at  a  penny  a  letter !" 

"As  I  foretold,  your  Excellency  knows  nothing  of  the 
matter — and  indeed,  how  should  you?  For  by  your 
tongue  I  would  wager  that  you  are  from  the  Navarrese 
provinces — therefore  a  speaker  of  two  languages  and  a 
wanderer  over  the  face  of  the  earth — your  sword  your 
bedfellow,  a  sack  of  fodder  for  your  beast  your  best 
couch,  and  the  loot  of  the  last  town  taken  by  assault  the 
only  provender  for  your  purse " 

"Let  my  purse  alone,"  quoth  the  Abbe  John.  "You 
will  find  that  there  is  enough  therein  to  pay  you,  and — 
for  a  bottle  of  good  wine  on  occasion  for  the  pleasure  of 
your  company." 

The  mixture  of  hauteur  and  familiarity  appeared  to 


300  The  White  Plume 

enchant  the  landlord,  and  he  laid  down  on  the  bed  the 
dishes  lie  was  carrying. 

"I  will  explain,"  he  said ;  "it  is  not  every  day  that  you 
can  hear  such  a  tale  as  mine  for  nothing." 

"Bring  a  bottle  of  your  best !"  said  John,  who  was  dis- 
posed to  talk,  hoping  that  by-and-by  he  might  receive 
also  the  best  of  informations  as  to  the  ships  in  the  har- 
bour, their  incomings  and  outgoings,  their  captains  and 
merchandises,  together  with  the  ports  to  which  they 
sailed. 

The  wine  was  brought,  and  the  host  began  his  tale. 

"This  hostelry  of  mine  was  my  father's  also,  and  his 
father's  before  him  for  many  generations.  They  were 
of  noble  blood — of  the  Llorients  of  Collioure,  though  the 
rolling  of  vulgar  tongues  has  shortened  it  a  little  in  these 
days.  And  my  mother's  name  was  Valvidia,  being  of  one 
of  the  best  houses  of  Spain.  I  am  therefore  of  good 
blood  on  either  side — you  hear,  Senor  the  Soldier?" 

The  Abbe  John  nodded.  There  was  nothing  remark- 
able in  that.  Every  Spaniard  counts  himself  so  born, 
and  it  must  be  owned,  so  far  at  least  as  politeness  is  con- 
cerned, comports  himself  as  such. 

But  the  Chevelure  d'Or,  its  carefully-mixed  wine,  and 
the  tale  thereto  attached  proved  so  soporific  that  when 
John  d'Albret  awoke,  he  found  himself  chained  to  a 
bench  in  a  long,  low,  evil-smelling  place.  A  huge  oar- 
handle  was  before  him,  upon  which  he  was  swaying 
drunkenly  to  and  fro.  He  had  on  his  left  two  com- 
panions who  were  doing  the  work  of  the  rowing,  and, 
erected  upon  a  bench  behind,  a  huge  man  with  a  fierce 
countenance  walked  to  and  fro  with  a  whip  in  his  hand. 

"Where  am  I?"  said  John  d'Albret  feebly,  his  voice 
appearing  to  himself  to  come  from  an  infinite  distance, 
and  sounding  through  the  buzzing  and  racking  of  many 


The  White  Plume  301 

windmills,  like  those  of  Jean-Marie  the  Miller- Alcalde 
when  upon  their  beams  and  sails  the  mistral  does  its 
bitter  worst. 

"Hush !"  whispered  his  neighbour ;  "the  comite  will  flog 
you  if  you  talk  when  at  work.  You  are  on  the  King 
of  Spain's  galley  Conquistador,  going  south  from  Rosas 
to  Barcelona.  And  as  for  me,  I  am  a  fellow-sufferer 
with  you  for  the  religion.  I  am  Francis  Agnew  the 
Scot!" 


CHAPTER  XLII 


"BuT  Fancis  Agnew  is  dead !    With  my  own  eyes  I  saw 
him  lie  dead,  in  the  robing-room  of  Professor  Anatole 


"Row,  you  skulking  'GitfeT  cried  the  "comite,"  bring- 
ing down  his  whip  upon  the  Abbe  John's  shoulders,  which 
were  bare,  with  a  force  that  convinced  him  that  he  at 
least  was  both  alive  and  awake. 

So  he  kept  silence  and  rowed  in  his  place  next  the  side 
of  the  vessel.  And  even  his  wonder  in  the  matter  of 
Claire's  father  could  not  prevent  his  cursing  in  his  heart 
the  man  who  had  brought  him  to  this  pass — the  talkative, 
hospitable,  and  far-descended  Don  Sileno  Lorent  y  Val- 
vidia,  of  the  Parador  of  the  Cabeledura  d'Oro  in  the  town 
of  Rosas. 

The  galley  of  the  first  class,  Conquistador,  was  one  of 
the  few  which  had  been  left  behind  in  the  Mediterranean 
at  the  time  of  the  Great  Armada.  Most  of  the  others 
had  been  carried  northward  for  coast  defence,  and  now 
lagged  idly  in  port  for  lack  of  crews  to  navigate  them. 
So  that  it  became  a  quaint  dilemma  of  King  Philip's 
how  to  obtain  sufficient  heretics  for  his  autos  da  fe  with- 
out impoverishing  too  greatly  his  marine. 

The  Conquistador  kept  close  company  with  the  Puerto 
Reale,  another  of  the  same  class,  but  with  only  two 
hundred  slaves  aboard  to  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  of 
the  Conquistador.  The  "comite,"  or  master-in-charge  of 
the  slaves,  walked  up  and  down  a  long  central  bench. 


The  White  Plume  303 

His  whip  was  hardly  ever  idle,  but  it  did  not  fall  again 
upon  John  d'Albret — not  from  any  pity  for  a  newcomer, 
but  because  the  ship's  purser  had  let  out  the  fact  that  a 
considerable  sum  in  gold  was  in  his  hands  to  the  credit 
of  the  newcomer.  For  King  Philip,  though  he  persecuted 
the  heretic  with  fire  and  sword,  fine,  imprisonment,  and 
the  galleys,  did  not  allow  his  subordinates  to  interfere 
with  his  monopoly.  And  indeed,  as  the  Abbe  John 
learned,  more  than  one  officer  had  swung  from  the  forty- 
foot  yard  of  his  own  mainmast  for  intromitting  wrong- 
fully with  a  prisoner's  money. 

As  to  the  captains,  they  were  for  the  most  part  im- 
poverished grandees  or  younger  sons  of  dukes  and  mar- 
quises. Most  were  knights  of  Malta  and  so  apparent 
bachelors,  whose  money  would  go  to  the  Order  at  their 
death.  In  the  meantime,  therefore,  they  spent  royally 
their  revenues.  The  captain  of  the  Conquistador  was  the 
young  Duke  of  Err,  recently  succeeded  to  the  ambassa- 
dorial title,  and  it  was  said  of  him  that  he  counted  the 
life  of  a  galley-slave  no  more  than  that  of  a  black- 
beetle  beneath  his  seigneurial  heel. 

So  long  as  the  boat  remained  at  sea  there  was  no  sleep 
for  any  slave.  Neither,  indeed,  for  any  of  the  "comites" 
or  sub-officers,  who  consequently  grew  snappish  and 
drove  their  slaves  to  the  very  limit  of  endurance,  so  that 
they  might  the  sooner  reach  the  harbour.  Yet  it  was 
full  morning  before  the  awnings  were  spread  within  the 
roads  of  Barcelona,  and  the  Abbe  John  could  stretch  his 
limbs — so  far,  that  is,  as  the  chain  allowed.  He  had  been 
placed,  at  the  request  of  the  senior  oarsman  of  his  mess, 
Francis  Agnew,  in  the  easiest  place,  that  next  the  side 
of  the  galley.  Here  not  only  was  the  stroke  of 
the  oar  shortest,  but  at  night,  or  in  the  intervals 
of  sleep,  the  curve  of  the  ship's  side  made  a  couch, 


304  The  White  Plume 

if  not  luxurious,  at  least,  comparatively  speaking, 
tolerable. 

The  "comite"  hoisted  his  hammock  across  the  broad 
coursier  or  estrada  which  ran  the  length  of  the  ship,  over- 
looking and  separating  the  two  banks  of  oars,  and  formed 
the  only  passage  from  the  high  poop  to  the  higher  stern. 
It  was  also  useful  in  rough  seas,  when  the  waves  broke 
right  across  the  ship,  and  (a  mere  detail)  over  the 
rowers  also.  For  the  only  communication  with  the  hold 
was  by  gangways  descending  from  either  end  of  the 
coursier. 

The  Abbe  John  heard  the  sound  of  the  chief  "comite's" 
whistle  with  astonishment.  So  varied  were  its  tones,  the 
quick  succession  of  its  notes,  that  the  prompt  under- 
standing and  obedience  of  the  slaves  and  sailors,  at  what- 
ever part  of  the  deck  they  were  placed,  seemed  as  magic 
to  him. 

"Do  as  I  do,"  said  Francis  Agnew,  noticing  his  be- 
wilderment. So  the  Abbe  John  halted  and  pulled,  raised 
his  oar  level  or  backed  water  at  the  word  of  Claire's 
father.  And  all  the  while  he  kept  looking  sideways  at 
the  Dead-come-to-Life-again  with  speechless  wonder  and 
the  sense  of  walking  in  a  dream.  Only  the  sound  of  the 
"comite's"  lash  on  his  comrades'  backs  kept  him  con- 
vinced of  the  general  reality  of  things. 

Francis  Agnew  was  a  strong  and  able-bodied  rower, 
much  remarked  and  approved  by  his  chiefs.  At  various 
periods  of  an  adventurous  life  he  had  served  on  the 
French  and  other  galleys,  even  including  those  of 
Turkey.  So  that  all  the  commands  and  disciplines  came 
easily  to  him.  He  had  even  been  charged  with  the  pro- 
visioning of  the  rowers  of  the  whole  port  side,  and  on 
occasion  he  could  take  the  "comite's"  whistle  and  pipe 
upon  it,  to  the  admiration  of  all. 


The  White  Plume  305 

Claire's  father  began  his  tale  as  soon  as  he  had  ar- 
ranged his  great  cloak  of  woollen  stuff  commodiously, 
and  laid  the  pillow  (which  he  had  by  favour)  close  to  the 
Abbe  John's  ear. 

"The  servants  of  the  Sorbonne  who  were  employed  to 
carry  my  body  to  the  vault  were  green  rascals.  It  was 
their  thought  at  first  to  sell  my  body  to  the  younger 
surgeons  for  the  purpose  of  their  researching.  But  after 
stripping  me  of  my  apparel,  it  chanced  that  they  cast  a 
bucket  of  water  over  me  to  help  me  to  'keep' — the 
weather  being  hot  in  those  Barricade  Days  in  the  city  of 
Paris." 

At  this  moment  the  tread  of  the  night-sentinel  ap- 
proached along  the  coursier  above  their  heads.  The 
voices  and  whisperings  ceased  before  him  as  by  magic. 
It  was  full  afternoon  without,  blazing  under  the  chinked 
awnings.  But  officially  it  was  night  on  board  the  galley. 
Day  closed  when  the  whistle  of  "comite"  blew.  Mostly 
a  careful  captain,  from  motives  of  self-interest  more 
than  from  any  humanity,  worked  his  men  in  the  cool 
times  of  the  night.  For  the  Mediterranean  is  always 
so  luminous  of  itself  that  the  merest  ripple  of  air  is  suf- 
ficient to  stir  the  water  and  show  the  way.  Moreover,  in 
times  of  peace  and  on  that  safe  coast  galleys  were  rarely 
moored  save  in  calm  weather. 

"It  happened  thus" — as  the  sentinel  passed  Francis 
Agnew  took  up  the  tale.  "After  the  Sorbonne  rascals 
had  plashed  the  cool  water  over  me,  I  sat  up  suddenly 
and  looked  about  me  for  a  sword.  But,  there  being 
none,  I  was  in  their  power.  For  ten  days  they  kept  me 
in  hold  in  a  secret  place  among  the  firewood,  deep  under- 
ground, without  any  loopholes  whatever.  Twice  a  day 
they  brought  me  food,  and  by  the  light  of  a  candle  they 
dressed  my  wounds — one  of  them  being  expert  at  that 


306  The  White  Plume 

business,  having  had  practice  in  the  hospitals.  Then 
when  I  was  recovered  they  gave  me  a  candle  which 
burned  two  hours  only.  And  with  it  also  a  pile  of 
brushwood  to  cut  up  into  small  pieces.  This  was  the 
pleasantest  part  of  the  day  to  me.  But  they  always  took 
away  the  axe  afterwards,  bidding  me  push  it  through 
beneath  the  door,  so  that  whoever  came  with  my  next 
meal  might  see  it.  Else  I  would  get  no  dinner.  For 
they  feared  lest  I  might  brain  one  of  them  as  he  came 
in,  and  then  make  a  rush  for  the  passage-way.  But  I 
knew  that  the  doors  were  shut  behind,  so  that  there  was 
no  chance.  And  besides,  being  a  Christian  man,  I  was 
covenanted  to  fight  only  when  I  could  do  so  without  sin, 
and  with  some  chance  of  continuing  the  life  so  marvel- 
lously preserved  to  me ! 

"Then  this  Flamand,  the  chief  of  the  servitors  of  the 
Sorbonne — Holtz  was  his  name,  a  huge-handed  animal 
of  monkey  breed,  but  with  cunning  under  that  sloping 
skull  of  his — made  interest  to  find  me  a  place  in  one  of 
the  slow  waggons  which  carry  the  king's  artillery  to  the 
port  of  Calais,  where  the  new  forts  are.  And  me  he  laid, 
tied  like  a  parcel  between  two  brass  guns  for  sieging, 
strapped  down  and  gagged,  feeding  me  at  nights  when 
the  convoy  halted.  Also  he  paid  the  chief  waggoner  so 
much.  For  he  meant  to  sell  me  for  a  slave  to  the  Duke 
of  Parma,  who  at  that  time  was  gathering  a  great  fleet 
of  galleys  to  destroy  England.  I  had  heard  them  argu- 
ing the  matter  somewhat  thus : 

"  'Better  kill  him  and  be  done,'  said  one ;  'thus  we 
are  sure  of  a  hundred  shields  for  him  from  the  lads  of 
the  beef  barrel.'  (So  they  spoke  of  the  young  surgeons 
of  the  Sorbonne. ) 

"However,  the  Flamand  (a  vantard  and  a  bully,  but 
very  cunning)  offered  to  fight  any  man  there,  or  any 


The  White  Plume  307 

two,  with  fists  or  knives  or  any  other  weapon  of  their 
choice.  And  when  no  one  took  up  his  challenge,  he  cried 
out,  'Ho,  stand  back  there,  ye  pack  of  cowards !  This 
man  is  mine.  A  hundred  silver  shields !  What  is  a  hun- 
dred shields  when  for  such  a  wiry  fellow,  albeit 
a  little  old,  we  will  get  a  hundred  gold  pieces 
from  Parma,  if  only  we  can  get  him  as  far  as  Nieu- 
port.' 

"And  so  to  Parma  I  was  given,  but  the  galley  I  was 
first  placed  in  met  with  an  English  ship-of-war,  and  she 
ran  us  so  close  that  we  could  not  row.  Her  prow  scraped 
us,  breaking  the  oars  and  tossing  the  dead  about,  many 
being  slain  with  the  bounding  fragments.  And  I — I  was 
in  the  place  next  the  port-hole,  and  I  mind  me  I  could 
lay  my  hand  on  the  muzzle  of  a  shotted  gun.  But  that 
is  the  last  I  remember.  For  at  that  moment  the  English- 
man fired  a  broadside  and  swept  our  decks.  I  alone  was 
unhurt,  and  after  a  while  in  the  lazar-house  of  Vigo,  I 
came  hither  in  a  galleasse  to  teach  the  'comites'  of  the 
Mediterranean  side  the  newer  practice  of  the  fleets  of  the 
North." 

He  chuckled  a  little,  his  well-trained  ear  taking  in  the 
diminuendo  and  crescendo  of  the  sentinel's  footsteps  on 
the  wooden  platform  above  his  head. 

"But  from  what  I  saw  of  the  English,"  he  murmured, 
"I  judge  that  before  long  there  will  be  no  need  of  galleys 
to  fight  Spain's  battles." 

In  a  moment  John  d'Albret  knew  that  his  companion 
had  not  yet  heard  of  the  destruction  of  the  Great  Ar- 
mada. He  told  him. 

"Glory  to  the  God  of  Battles!"  he  said,  hushed  and 
low,  "to  Him  the  praise !" 

Just  then  all  the  bells  of  the  city  began  to  ring,  slow 
and  measured.  The  sound  came  mellowed  over  the  water 


308  The  WTiite  Plume 

and  filtered  through  the  striped  awnings  of  yellow  and 
red. 

"Some  great  man  is  dead,"  he  said ;  "perhaps  the  King 
• — Philip,  I  mean.  Or  else  a  day  of  humiliation " 

"Auto  da  fe!"  came  along  the  benches  in  a  thrilling 
whisper,  for  in  spite  of  their  fatigue  few  of  the  slaves 
were  asleep.  The  afternoon  was  too  hot,  the  glare  from 
the  water  intolerable. 

"Ah,  well,  the  sooner  to  peace  for  some  poor  souls," 
said  Francis  the  Scot.  Then  a  thought  seemed  to  strike 
him.  "Is  it  not  possible — no,  you  cannot  have  heard. 
I  dare  not  expect  it.  But  I  had  a  daughter,  she  was 
named  Claire.  They  told  me — that  is,  the  Flamand 
Holtz,  a  not  unkindly  brute,  though  he  had  resolved  to 
make  money  out  of  me,  dead  or  alive — well,  he  told  me 
that  one  of  the  wisest  of  the  professors,  a  learned  man, 
had  taken  her  under  his  care.  They  escaped  together 
to  go  to  his  mother's  house  with  one  of  the  students,  a 
cousin  of  the  Hope  of  Israel.  You  never  heard — no, 
it  is  not  possible.  Why  should  I  dream  it  ?" 

The  Abbe  John's  throat  became  suddenly  dry.  He 
gasped  for  a  moment,  but  could  not  speak. 

"You  do  know — she  is  dead — tell  me!"  said  Francis 
the  Scot,  shaking  him  roughly  by  the  arm.  And  that 
was  the  single  unkindness  he  used  to  the  young  man. 

"No,  no !"  gasped  John  d' Alb  ret.  "§he  is  well.  I 
love  her.  I  was  that  third  who  escaped  in  her  company !" 

"Where  is  she?" 

"Nay,  that  I  do  not  know  exactly,"  said  the  Abbe  John, 
"but  it  is  in  France,  in  a  quiet  province,  with  good  folk 
who  love  her — though  not  as  I  love  her.  For  I  came 
hither  for  her  sake !" 

And  he  told  the  tale — how,  in  Jean-aux-Choux's  secret 
cache  behind  the  sheepfold  on  the  hill,  he  had  found  a 


The  White  Plume  309 

list  of  the  articles  for  transport  to  Dame  Amelie's  new 
abode,  with  directions  to  the  carriers,  and  one  or  two 
objects  of  price,  evidently  set  aside  for  Jean  to  carry 
thither  himself  upon  his  next  visit.  So  far,  therefore,  he 
was  assured  that  all  went  well. 

"God  is  great !"  said  Francis  the  Scot  aloud ;  and  the 
captive  Turk  who  rowed  outside  oar,  catching  the  well- 
known  formula,  added  instantly,  "And  Mohammed  is  His 
prophet." 

But  on  this  occasion,  at  least,  he  was  mistaken.  For 
— like  many  a  good  proselyte  who  knows  little  of  his 
master's  doctrine  yet  draws  converts  notwithstanding — 
not  Mohammed  or  Another,  but  plain,  flippant,  light- 
hearted  Jean  d'Albret  was  on  this  occasion  the  Prophet 
of  the  Lord.' 


CHAPTER  XLIII 
IN   TARRAGONA   BAY 

HENCEFORTH  little  personal  was  said.  The  two  men 
spoke  mostly  of  the  work  of  the  ship,  the  chance  of  escape 
(like  all  prisoners),  and  especially  concerning  the  prog- 
ress of  the  Holy  War  against  ignorance  and  tyranny. 
But  of  Claire,  nothing. 

Something  withheld  them.  A  new  thing  was  working 
in  the  heart  of  John  d'Albret.  Like  many  another  he 
had  been  born  a  Catholic,  and  it  had  always  seemed  im- 
possible to  him  to  change.  But  the  Place  of  Eyes,  the 
Question  Greater  and  Lesser  in  the  Street  of  the  Money, 
the  comradeship  of  Rosny  and  D'Aubigne  in  the  camps 
of  the  Bearnais,  had  shaken  him.  Now  he  listened,  as 
often  as  he  had  time  to  listen,  to  the  whispered  argu- 
ments and  explanations  of  his  new  friend.  I  do  not 
know  whether  he  was  convinced.  I  am  not  sure  even 
that  he  always  heard  aright.  But,  moved  most  of  all 
by  the  transparent  honesty  of  the  man  whose  body  had 
so  suffered  for  that  royal  law  of  liberty  which  judges  not 
by  professions  but  by  works,  the  Abbe  John  resolved  no 
more  to  fight  in  the  armies  of  the  Huguenot  Prince 
merely  as  a  loyal  Catholic,  but  to  be  even  such  a  man 
as  Francis  Agnew,  if  it  in  him  lay. 

That  it  did  not  so  lie  within  his  compass  detracts 
nothing  from  the  excellence  of  his  resolution.  The  flesh 
was  weak  and  would  ever  remain  so.  This  gay,  careless 
spirit,  bold  and  hardy  in  action,  was  much  like  that  of 
Henry  of  Navarre  in  his  earlier  days.  There  were  indeed 


The  White  Plume  311 

two  sorts  of  Huguenots  in  France  in  the  days  of  the 
Wars  of  Religion.  They  divided  upon  the  verse  in 
James  which  says,  "Is  any  among  you  afflicted?  Let 
him  pray.  Is  any  merry?  Let  him  sing." 

The  Puritans  afterwards  translated  the  verse,  "Let 
him  sing  psalms."  But  the  Genevan  translators  (whom 
in  this  book  I  follow  in  their  first  edition  of  1560)  more 
mercifully  left  out  the  "psalms" :  "Is  any  merry,  let  him 
sing!"  say  they. 

Now  such  was  the  fashion  of  the  men  who  fought  for 
Henry  IV.  Even  D'Aubigne,  the  greatest  of  all — 
historian,  poet  and  satirist — expelled  from  France  for 
over-rigidity,  found  himself  equally  in  danger  in  Geneva 
because  of  the  liberty  of  his  Muse's  wing. 

So,  though  the  Abbe  John  became  a  suffering  and 
warring  Huguenot,  on  grounds  good  and  sufficient  to 
his  own  conscience,  he  remained  ever  the  lad  he  was  when 
he  scuffled  on  the  Barricades  for  the  "Good  Guise" — and 
the  better  fighting !  A  little  added  head-knowledge  does 
not  change  men. 

No  motives  are  ever  simple,  no  eye  ever  quite  single. 
And  I  will  not  say  what  force,  if  any,  the  knowledge 
that  Francis  Agnew  the  Scot  would  never  give  his  daugh- 
ter in  marriage  to  a  Persecutor  of  the  Brethren,  had  in 
bringing  about  the  Abbe  John's  decision. 

Perhaps  none  at  all — I  do  not  know.  I  am  no  man's 
judge.  The  weight  which  such  an  argument  might  have 
with  oneself  is  all  any  man  can  know.  And  that  is,  after 
all,  perhaps  best  left  unstated. 

At  first  John  was  all  for  revealing  his  name  and 
quality;  but  against  this  Francis  Agnew  warned  him. 
At  present  he  was  treated  as  a  pressed  man,  escaping 
the  "hempen  breakfasts  of  the  heretic  dogs" — which  the 
captain,  the  young  Duke  d'Err,  often  commanded  the 


312  The  White  Plume 

"comite"  to  serve  out  to  those  condemned  for  their  faith. 
Only  the  Turks,  of  whom  there  were  a  good  many,  cap- 
tured during  the  Levantine  wars,  strong,  grave,  sturdy 
men,  were  better  treated  than  he. 

"If,  then,"  said  his  companion,  "they  know  that  you 
are  a  cousin  of  the  Bearnais,  they  will  most  likely  send 
you  to  the  Holy  Bonfire,  especially  as  you  are  of  too  light 
weight  to  row  in  the  galley,  at  any  rate." 

The  Abbe  John  cried  out  against  this.  He  was  as 
good  as  any  man,  in  the  galley  or  elsewhere. 

"In  intent,  yes,"  said  the  Scot ;  "but  your  weight  is  as 
nothing  to  Hamal's  or  even  mine,  when  it  comes  to  pull- 
ing at  fifty  foot  of  oar  on  an  upper  deck !" 

The  Duke  of  Err  was  a  young  nobleman  who  had  early 
ruined  himself  by  evil  life.  The  memory  rankled,  so 
that  sometimes  the  very  devil  of  cruelty  seemed  to  ride 
him.  He  would  order  the  most  brutal  acts  for 
sport,  and  laugh  afterwards  as  they  threw  the  dead 
slaves  over,  hanging  crucifixes,  Korans,  or  Genevan 
Bibles  about  their  necks  in  mockery  according  to  their 
creed. 

"My  galley  is  lighter  by  so  much  carrion !"  he  would 
say  on  such  occasions. 

It  chanced  that  late  in  the  autumn,  when  the  great  heats 
were  beginning  to  abate  and  the  equinoctials  had  not 
yet  begun  to  blow  on  that  exposed  eastern  coast  of 
Spain,  for  a  private  reason  the  Duke-Captain  desired 
to  be  at  Tarragona  by  nightfall.  So  all  that  day  the 
slaves  were  driven  by  the  "executioners" — as  the  Duke 
invariably  named  his  "comites" — till  they  prayed  for 
death. 

Although  it  was  a  known  sea  and  a  time  of  peace,  the 
slaves  were  allowed  no  quarter — that  is,  one-half  row- 
ing while  the  other  rested.  All  were  forced  most 


The  WTiite  Plume  313 

mercilessly  through  a  long  day's  agony  of  heat  and 
labour. 

"Strike,  bourreau — strike!"  cried  the  captain  inces- 
santly ;  "what  else  are  you  paid  the  King's  good  money 
for  ?  If  we  do  not  get  to  Tarragona  by  four  o'clock  this 
afternoon,  I  will  have  you  hung  from  the  yardarm.  So 
you  are  warned.  If  you  cannot  animate,  you  can  ter- 
rorise. Once  I  saw  a  'comite'  in  the  galleys  of  Malta 
cut  off  a  slave's  arm,  and  beat  the  other  dogs  about  the 
head  with  it  till  they  doubled  their  speed !" 

It  was  in  order  to  give  a  certain  entertainment  at  Tar- 
ragona that  the  Duke  of  Err  was  so  eager  to  get  there. 
For  hardly  had  the  Conquistador  anchored  before  the 
great  sail  was  down,  the  fore-rudder  unshipped,  the  after 
part  of  the  deck  cleared,  and  a  gay  marquee  spread,  with 
tables  set  out  underneath  for  a  banquet. 

By  this  time,  what  with  the  freshness  of  the  sea  and  fear 
of  missing  a  stroke  occasionally — a  crime  always  relent- 
lessly punished — the  men  were  so  fatigued  with  the  heat, 
the  toil,  and  the  bruising  of  their  chests  upon  the  oar- 
handles  that  many  would  gladly  have  fallen  asleep  as 
they  were — but  the  order  came  not.  All  were  kept  at 
their  posts  ready  for  the  salute  when  the  guests  of  the 
Duke  should  come  on  board — that  is,  the  lifting  of  the 
huge  oars  out  of  the  water  all  in  a  moment  and  holding 
them  parallel  and  dripping,  a  thing  which,  when  well 
performed,  produces  a  very  happy  effect. 

After  dinner  the  Duke  conducted  his  guests  upon  the 
coursier,  or  raised  platform,  to  look  down  upon  the 
strange  and  terrible  spectacle  beneath.  It  was  full  moon, 
and  the  guests,  among  them  several  ladies,  gazed  upon 
that  mass  of  weary  humanity  as  on  a  spectacle. 

"God  who  made  us  all,"  murmured  the  Abbe  John,  "can 
woman  born  of  woman  be  so  cruel !" 


314  The  White  Plume 

The  young  Duke  was  laughing  and  talking  to  a  lady 
whom  he  held  cavalierly  by  the  hand,  to  preserve  her 
from  slipping  upon  the  narrow  ledge  of  the  coursler, 

"I  told  you  I  had  the  secret  of  sleep,"  he  said.  "I  will 
prove  it.  I  will  make  three  hundred  and  fifty  men  sleep 
with  a  motion  of  my  hand." 

He  signed  to  one  of  the  "comites,"  whom  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  call  his  "chief  hangman,"  and  the  man  blew 
a  long  modulated  note.  Instantly  the  whole  of  the  men 
who  had  kept  at  attention  dropped  asleep — most  of  them 
being  really  so,  because  of  their  weariness.  And  others, 
like  John  d'Albret  and  Francis  the  Scot,  only  pretended 
to  obey  the  order. 

At  the  sight  of  the  hundreds  of  miserable  wretches  be- 
neath, crowded  together,  naked  to  the  waist  (for  they 
had  no  opportunity  of  dressing),  their  backs  still  bleed- 
ing from  the  blows  of  the  bourreau,  the  lady  shuddered 
and  threw  her  arm  hastily  from  that  of  the  captain.  But 
he,  thinking  that  she  was  pleased,  and  only  in  fear  of 
slipping  among  such  a  horrid  gang,  led  her  yet  farther 
along  the  estrade,  and  continued  his  jesting  in  the  same 
strain  as  before. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "you  have  seen  that  I  am 
possessed  of  the  art  of  making  men  sleep.  Now  you  will 
see  that  I  know  equally  well  how  to  awake  them." 

Again  he  signed  to  the  "comites"  to  blow  the 
reveille. 

A  terrible  scene  ensued  as  the  men  rose  to  resume  their 
oars.  The  chains  clanked  and  jingled.  The  riveted  iron 
girdles  about  their  waists  glistened  at  the  part  where  the 
back-pull  of  the  oar  catches  it.  Hardly  one  of  the  crew, 
was  fit  to  move.  With  the  long  strain  of  waiting  their 
limbs  had  stiffened ;  their  arms  had  become  like  branches 
of  trees.  Even  the  utmost  efforts  of  "hangman" 


The  White  Plume  315 

were  hardly  able  to  put  into  them  a  semblance  of 
activity. 

As  the  party  looked  from  above  upon  that  moving 
mass,  the  moon,  which  had  been  clouded  over,  began  to 
draw  clear.  Above,  was  the  white  and  sleeping  town 
sprinkled  with  illuminated  windows — beneath,  many  rid- 
ing-lights of  ships  in  harbour.  The  moon  sprang  from 
behind  the  cloud.,  sailing  small  and  clear  in  the  height  of 
heaven,  and  Valentine  la  Nina  found  herself  looking  into 
a  pallid,  scarcely  human  face — that  of  John  d'Albret, 
galley-slave. 

He  was — where  she  had  vowed  him.  Her  curse  had 
held  true.  With  a  cry  she  slipped  from  the  captain's 
arm,  sprang  from  the  coursier,  and  threw  her  arms  about 
the  neck  of  the  worn  and  bleeding  slave ! 


VALENTINE  AND  HER  VENGEANCE 

BUT  as  he  watched,  a  strange  drawn  look  appeared  on 
the  countenance  of  Francis  Agnew  the  Scot.  And  there 
came  that  set  look  to  his  mouth  which  had  enabled  him 
to  endure  so  many  things. 

"The  lad  also !"  he  muttered,  "and  I  had  begun  to  love 
him!" 

For  it  was  not  given  to  Francis  Agnew,  more  than  to 
any  other  son  of  Adam,  to  divine  the  good  when  the 
appearance  is  evil.  And  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  he 
thought  of  Claire,  of  her  hope  deferred,  and  of  the 
waiting  of  the  sick  heart.  She  believed  this  man  faith- 
ful. And  now,  would  even  her  father's  return  (if  ever  he 
did  return)  make  up  to  her  for  this  most  foul  treachery? 

To  John  d'Albret  he  spoke  no  further  word.  He  asked 
no  question,  as  they  rested  side  by  side  during  the  night- 
watches.  The  stammered  explanation  which  the  Abbe 
John  began  after  Valentine's  departure  was  left  unan- 
swered. Francis  Agnew  had  learned  a  great  secret — how 
to  keep  silence.  It  is  an  excellent  gift. 

The  ancient,  high-piled  town  loomed  up  tier  above  tier, 
white  and  grey  and  purple  under  the  splendours  of  the 
moon.  The  Abbe  John  took  it  in  bit  by  bit — the  black 
ledges  and  capes  with  the  old  Moorish  castles,  and  later 
corsair  watch-towers,  the  flaring  phare  at  the  mouth  of 
the  harbour,  the  huge  double  swell  of  the  cathedral 
crowning  all,  the  long  lines  of  the  arch-episcopal  palace 
on  the  slope,  the  vineyards  and  oliveyards — :all  stood  up 


The  White  Plume  317 

blanched,  and  as  it  were,  blotched  in  pen  and  ink  under 
the  silver  flood  of  light  and  the  steady  milky  blue  arch  of 
the  sky.  Such  was  Tarragona  upon  that  night  of  sleep- 
less silence. 

The  morning  brought  a  new  order,  grateful  to  both. 

The  armourer  of  the  Conquistador  came  down,  and 
with  file  and  rasp  and  pince-monseigneur  he  speedily 
undid  the  iron  belt  which  had  not  yet  had  time  to  eat 
into  the  flesh.  The  Abbe  John  was  commanded  to  go 
on  shore.  During  his  short  time  aboard  he  had  made 
himself  a  favourite.  The  Turk,  Ben  Hamal,  hugged  him 
to  his  hairy  chest  and  stammered  a  blessing  in  the  name 
of  the  Prophet.  Others  here  and  there  wished  him  good 
speed,  and  looked  wistfully  at  him,  even  though  after 
John  had  departed  they  shook  their  heads,  and  with  quick 
upward  motions  of  their  thumbs  imitated  the  darting 
flames  of  the  bi-weekly  auto  da  fe. 

They  understood  why  he  was  sent  for — and  envied  him. 

Only  Francis  Agnew  the  Scot  said  no  word,  bade  no 
adieu,  wished  no  wish,  gazing  steadily  at  a  post  on  the 
shore,  which  to  his  distorted  imagination  took  on  the 
shape  of  a  woman  dressed  in  white  waiting  for  John 
d'Albret. 

Had  he  only  thought,  he  would  have  known  that  to 
be  impossible.  But  he  did  not  think — except  of  Claire, 
his  daughter.  And — as  he  had  said — he  had  begun  to 

love  the  lad.    So  much  the  worse  for  him  and  for  all. 

*  *  *  #  * 

It  was  not  upon  the  shore,  but  high  up  in  the  city,  that 
the  Abbe  John  found  Valentine  la  Nina.  She  waited 
him  in  that  secular  annex  to  the  palace  of  the  Archbishop 
which  the  great  Teres  Doria  now  occupied  as  Viceroy 
of  Catalonia.  The  Archbishop-Governor  had  put  his 
private  cabinet  at  her  service.  One  does  not  say  no  to 


318  The  White  Plume 

the  daughters  of  reigning  sovereigns,  when  one  has 
served  both  father  and  grandfather. 

Doria  had  ordered  his  valet,  a  layman  with  mere 
servitor's  vows,  to  give  him  a  standing,  to  assist  John 
d'Albret  in  his  toilet.  So  before  long  the  Abbe  John 
found  himself  in  a  suit  of  black  velvet,  severe  and  un- 
broidered,  which  fitted  him  better  than  it  could  ever  have 
done  the  stouter  Don  Jacques  Casas,  for  whom  it  had 
been  made.  A  sword  hung  at  his  side — a  feeble  blade 
and  blunt,  as  John  d'Albret  ascertained  as  soon  as  he 
was  left  a  moment  alone,  but  sheathed  in  a  scabbard  of 
price.  He  sat  still  and  let  the  good  valet  perfume  and 
lave  and  comb  out  his  love-locks,  without  thinking  much 
of  what  was  coming.  His  mind  was  benumbed  and  curi- 
ously oppressed.  Fate  planned  above  his  head,  shadowy 
but  unseen.  And  somehow  he  was  afraid — he  knew  not 
why. 

Finally  all  was  done.  Even  Jacques  Casas  was  satisfied, 
and  smiled.  The  galley-slave  had  become  a  man  again. 

The  cabinet  of  the  Cardinal-Viceroy  of  Catalonia 
looked  over  the  city  wall,  very  nearly  at  its  highest 
seaward  angle,  in  the  place  where  now  they  have  pierced 
a  gate,  where  red-kerchiefed  gypsies  sit  about  on  steps, 
and  vagabonds  in  mauve  caps  sell  snails  by  measure. 
But  then  a  little  vice-regal  garden  fronted  the  windows, 
and  the  ancient  walls  of  Tarragona,  older  than  the 
Romans  or  the  Greeks,  older  than  Carthage — older  even 
than  the  galleys  of  Tyre — fell  away  beneath  towards  the 
sea  verges,  so  solid  that  to  the  eye  there  was  little  differ- 
ence between  them  and  the  living  rock  on  which  they 
were  founded.  The  giants  who  were  in  the  times  before 
the  flood  built  them,  so  the  townsmen  said.  And  as  no 
one  knows  anything  about  the  matter,  that  opinion  is  as 
good  as  any  other. 


The  White  Plume  319 

The  two  young  people  stood  regarding  each  other, 
silent.  The  blonde  masses  of  the  girl's  hair  seemed  less 
full  of  living  gold  and  fire  than  of  yore.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  thread  or  two  of  grey  mingling  with  the  gracious- 
ness  of  those  thick  coils  and  curves.  But  the  great  eyes, 
coloured  like  clover-honey  dropped  from  the  comb,  were 
moist  and  glorious  as  ever.  They  had  manifestly  gained 
in  directness  and  nobility. 

The  Abbe  John  bowed  low.  Valentine  la  Nina  did 
not  respond.  There  was,  however,  a  slight  colour  on 
her  cheeks  of  clear  ivory.  Man  born  of  woman  had  never 
seen  that  before. 

"I  have  sent  for  you,"  said  Valentine  la  Nina,  in  a 
low  and  thrilling  contralto.  "I  would  speak  with  you! 
Yet  this  one  time  more!" 

She  put  her  hand  rapidly  to  her  throat,  as  if  some- 
thing there  impeded  her  utterance. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  swallowing  down  her  emotion 
with  difficulty ;  "I  would  speak  with  you — it  may  be  for 
the  last  time." 

After  this  she  was  silent  a  while,  as  if  making  up  her 
mind  what  to  say.  Then  with  a  single  instinctive  me- 
chanical gesture  she  twitched  her  long  robe  of  white  and 
creamy  lace  behind  her.  It  seemed  as  if  she  wanted  all 
space  wide  and  clear  before  her  for  what  she  had 
to  say  and  do.  Her  eyes  devoured  those  of  John 
d'Albret. 

"You — still — love  her?"  she  said,  forcing  the  words 
slowly  from  her  lips. 

"I  love  her !"  John  answered  simply.  He  had  nothing 
to  add  to  that.  It  had  been  said  before.  Any  apology 
would  be  an  insult  to  Claire — sympathy  a  deeper  insult 
to  the  woman  before  him. 

The  carmine  flush  deepened  on  her  cheek.     But  it  was 


320  The  White  Plume 

not  anger.  The  girl  was  singularly  mistress  of  herself 
< — calm,  resolved,  clear-seeing. 

"Ah,"  said  Valentine  la  Nina  softly,  "I  expected  no 
other  answer.  But  still,  have  you  remembered  that  I 
once  gave  you  your  liberty?  How  you  lost  it  a  second 
time,  I  do  not  know.  Now  I  am  putting  all  my  cards 
on  the  table.  I  play — hearts  only.  If  I  and  my  love 
are  not  worthy  of  yours,  will  you  tell  me  why  another, 
who  has  done  nothing  for  you,  is  preferred  to  me,  who 
have  risked,  and  am  willing  to  risk,  everything  for  you — 
life,  death,  the  world,  position,  freedom,  honour,  all! 
Tell  me !  Answer  me !" 

"I  loved  her  first !"  said  the  Abbe  John. 

"Ah,  that  too  you  said  before,"  she  cried,  with  a  kind 
of  sigh,  "and  you  have  nothing  more  to  say — I — nothing 
more  to  offer.  Yet  I  cannot  tell  why  it  should  be  so. 
It  seems,  in  all  dispassion,  that  if  I  were  a  man,  I  should 
choose  Valentine  la  Nina.  Men — many  men — ah,  how 
many  men,  have  craved  for  that  which  I  have  begged 
you  to  accept — not  for  your  vague  princedom,  not  for 
your  vague  hopes,  not  for  your  soldier's  courage,  which 
is  no  rare  virtue.  But  for  you — yourself !  Because  you 
are  you — and  have  drawn  me,  I  know  not  how — I  see  not 
where " 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  obtain  my  release,"  said  John 
d'Albret,  somewhat  uneasily ;  "I  have  no  claim  to  that ; 
but  I  have  on  board  that  ship  a  comrade" — here  he  hesi- 
tated— "yes,  I  will  tell  you  his  name,  for  you  are  noble. 
It  is  Francis  Agnew,  her  father,  he  who  was  left  for 
dead  on  the  Street  of  the  University  by  the  Guisards 
of  Paris  on  the  Day  of  the  Barricades.  He  is  now  at 
the  same  bench  as  I,  in  the  Conquistador " 

"What!"  cried  Valentine;  "not  the  old  man  with  the 
white  tangled  beard  I  saw  by  your  side  when — when — I 
saw  you?" 


The  White  Plume  321 

"The  same,"  the  Abbe  John  answered  her  softly. 

Then  came  a  kind  of  glory  over  the  girl's  face,  like  the 
first  certainty  of  forgiveness  breaking  over  a  redeemed 
soul.  She  drew  in  her  breath  sharply.  Her  hands 
clasped  themselves  on  her  bosom.  Then  she  smiled,  but 
the  bitterness  was  gone  out  of  the  smile  now. 

"I  must  see  this  Claire,"  she  said,  speaking  shortly, 
and  somewhat  sternly,  to  herself ;  "I  must  know  whether 
she  is  worthy.  For  to  obtain  from  my  father  (who  will 
not  of  his  own  goodwill  call  me  daughter) — from  Philip 
the  King,  I  mean — pardon  for  two  such  heretics,  one 
of  them  the  cousin  of  his  chief  enemy,  I  must  have  a  great 
thing  to  offer.  And  such  I  have  indeed — something  that 
he  would  almost  expend  another  Armada  to  obtain.  But, 
before  I  decide,  I  must  see  Claire  Agnew.  I  must  look 
in  her  eyes,  and  know  if  she  be  worthy.  Then  I  will  do 
it.  Or,  perhaps,  she  and  I  together." 

The  last  words  were  murmured  only. 

The  Abbe  John,  who  knew  not  of  what  she  was  speak- 
ing, judged  it  prudent  to  say  nothing. 

"Yes — I  must  know,"  she  went  on,  still  brusquely; 
"you  will  tell  me  where  she  is.  I  will  go  there.  And 
afterwards  I  will  return  to  the  Escorial  to  see  my  father 
— Philip  the  King.  Meantime  I  will  speak  to  the  Duke 
of  Err,  and  to  his  mother,  as  well  as  to  the  Viceroy  Doria. 
You  shall  abide  in  Pilate's  House  down  there,  where  is 
a  prison  garden " 

"And  my  friend?"  said  John  d'Albret. 

The  girl  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  held  out  her  hand. 
The  young  man  took  it. 

"And  your  friend!"  she  said.  "There  in  Pilate's 
House  you  must  wait,  you  two,  till  I  see — till  I  know 
that  she  is  worth  the  sacrifice." 

Once  again  she  laughed  a  little,  seeing  a  wave  of  joy 


322  The  White  Plume 

or  perhaps  some  more  complex  emotion  sweep  over  John's 
face. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  with  a  returning  trace  of  her  first 
bitterness,  "you  are  certain  that  she  is  worthy !  Doubt- 
less so  for  you!  But  as  the  sacrifice  is  mine — I  also 
must  be  certain — ah,  very  certain.  For  there  is  no  back- 
going.  It  is  the  end  of  all  things  for  Valentine  la 
Nina." 

She  laughed  little  and  low,  like  one  on  the  verge  of 
hysterics.  A  nerve  twitched  irregularly  in  her  throat 
under  her  chin  to  the  right.  The  pink  came  out  brighter 
to  her  cheek.  It  was  a  terrible  laugh  to  hear  in  that  still 
place.  And  the  mirthlessness  of  it — it  struck  the  Abbe 
John  cold. 

"This  shall  be  my  revenge,"  she  said,  fixing  him  with 
flame  in  her  honey-coloured  eyes ;  "long  after,  long — oh, 
so — so  long  after" — she  waved  her  arm — "you  will  know ! 
And  you  will  see  that  however  much  she  has  loved  you, 
hers  was  the  love  which  takes.  But  mine — ah,  mine  is 
different.  Mine  is  the  love  which  gives — the  only  true 
woman's  love — without  scant,  without  measure,  without 
bounds  of  good  or  evil,  without  thought  of  recompense 
or  hope  of  reward — love  net,  unselfish,  boundless,  en- 
compassing as  the  sea,  and  like  a  fountain  sealed  within 
the  heart  of  a  woman.  And  then — then  you  shall  re- 
member that  when  ye  might — ye  would  not — ah,  ye 
would  not !" 

A  sob  tore  her  throat. 

"But  one  day,  or  it  may  be  through  all  eternity,  you 
shall  know  which  is  the  greater  love,  and  you  shall  wish 
— no,  you  are  a  man,  you  will  be  content  with  the  lesser, 
the  more  comprehensive,  the  goodwife,  warming  her  feet 
by  the  fire  over  against  yours.  There  is  your  ideal. 
While  I — I — would  have  carried  you  beyond  the  stars !" 


The  White  Plume  323 

The  Abbe  John  took  a  step  nearer  her.  He  had  some 
vague  notion  of  comforting — not  knowing. 

But  she  thrust  her  arms  out  furiously  as  if  to  strike 
him. 

"Go — go !"  she  cried ;  "you  are  breaking  my  heart  every 
instant  you  remain.  Is  it  not  enough,  that  which  you 
have  done  ?  I  would  be  quiet.  They  are  waiting  for  you 
to  take  you  to  Pilate's  House.  But  tell  me  first  where 
to  find  this — this  Claire  Agnew !" 

She  pronounced  the  name  with  difficulty. 

"Ah,"  Valentine  continued,  when  John  had  told  her 
how  she  was  safe  in  Provence,  "that  is  no  great  way.  I 
shall  go  and  soon  return.  Then  to  Madrid  is  farther, 
but  easier.  But  if  I  suffer — what  I  must  suffer — you  can 
well  abide  here  a  little  season.  The  hope — the  future 
is  with  you.  For  me  there  is  neither — save  to  do  the 
greatest  thing  for  you  that  ever  woman  did  for  man! 
That  shall  be  my  revenge." 


CHAPTER   XLV 
VALENTINE  FINDS   CLAIRE    WORTHY 

THE  mornings  are  fair — yes, very  sweet  and  very  clear — 
at  the  Mas  of  the  Mountain  well-nigh  all  the  year  round. 
However  hot  the  day,  however  mosquito-tormented  the 
nights  for  those  who  do  not  protect  themselves,  the  morn 
is  ever  fresh,  with  deep  draughts  of  air  cool  as  long- 
cellared  wine,  and  everywhere  the  scent  of  springy,  low- 
growing  plants — the  thyme,  the  romarin,  the  juniper — 
making  an  undergrowth  which  supports  the  foot  of  the 
wanderer,  and  carries  him  on  league  after  league  almost 
without  his  knowledge. 

There  was  great  peace  on  the  Valley  of  the  Rhone. 
It  was  at  peace  even  from  the  drive  of  the  eternal  mis- 
tral, which,  from  horizon  to  horizon,  turns  all  things 
greyish-white,  the  trees  and  herbage  heavy  with  dust, 
and  the  heavens  hiding  themselves  away  under  a  dry 
steely  pall. 

"  Avenio  ventoso, 
Si  non  ventoso,  venenoso," 

muttered  the  Professor,  as  he  looked  at  the  black  mass 
to  the  north,  which  was  the  Palace  of  the  Popes.  "But 
I  thank  God  it  is  windy,  this  Rhone  Valley  of  ours,  with 
its  one  great,  sweeping,  cleansing  wind,  so  that  no  poison 
can  lurk  anywhere." 

He  had  a  book  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  looking  abroad 
over  the  wide  valley  between  the  grey  ridges  of  the  Moun- 
tain of  Barbentane  and  the  little  splintered  peaks  of  the 


The  White  Plume  325 

Alpilles.  As  on  the  landscape,  great  peace  was  upon 
the  Professor. 

But  all  suddenly,  without  noise  of  approach,  Jean- 
aux-Choux  stood  before  him — changed,  indeed,  from  him 
who  had  been  called  "The  Fool  of  the  Three  Henries." 
The  fire  of  a  strange  passion  glowed  in  his  eye.  His 
great  figure  was  hollowed  and  ghastly.  His  regard 
seemed  to  burn  like  a  torch  that  smokes.  On  the  back 
of  his  huge  hand  the  muscles  stood  out  like  whipcords. 
His  arms,  bare  beneath  his  shepherd's  cape,  were  burned 
to  brick  colour. 

" Jean-aux-Choux !"  cried  the  Professor,  clapping  his 
hands,  "come  and  see  my  mother — how  content  she  will 
be." 

The  ex-fool  made  a  sign  of  negation. 

"No,  I  cannot  enter,"  he  said.  "There  is  a  woman  down 
in  the  valley  there  who  would  see  Claire  Agnew.  She 
hath  somewhat  to  say  to  her  which  it  concerns  her 
greatly  to  know." 

"Who  is  the  woman  ?"  demanded  the  Professor. 

"I  will  vouch  for  her,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux.  "Her 
name  is  nothing  to  you  or  to  any  man." 

"But  Claire  Agnew's  name  and  life  concern  me  greatly," 
said  the  Professor  hotly.  "Had  it  been  otherwise,  I 
should  even  now  have  been  in  my  class-room  with  my 
students  at  the  Sorbonne  1" 

"In  your  grave  more  like — with  Catherine  and  Guise 
and  Henry  of  Valois !" 

"Possibly,"  said  the  Professor  tranquilly ;  "all  the  same 
I  must  know !" 

"I  vouch  for  the  woman.  She  has  come  with  me  from 
Collioure,"  said  Jean-aux-Choux.  "Nevertheless,  do  you 
come  also,  and  we  will  stand  apart  and  watch  while  these 
two  speak  the  thing  which  is  in  their  hearts !" 


326  The   White  Plume 

"But  she  may  be  a  messenger  of  the  Inquisition,"  the 
Professor  protested,  whom  hard  experience  had  rendered 
suspicious  in  these  latter  days.  "A  dagger  under  the 
cloak  is  easy  to  carry !" 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  I  would  vouch  for  her?"  thundered 
Jean-aux-Choux,  the  face  of  the  slayer  of  Guise  showing 
for  the  first  time.  "Is  not  that  enough  ?" 

It  was  enough.  Notwithstanding,  the  Professor  armed 
himself  with  his  sword-cane,  and  prepared  to  be  of  the 
company.  They  called  Claire.  She  came  forth  to  them 
with  the  flour  of  the  bread-baking  on  her  hands,  gowned 
in  white,  with  the  cook's  apron  and  cap  which  Madame 
Amelie  had  made  for  her — a  fair,  gracious,  household 
figure. 

She  had  no  suspicions.  Some  one  wanted  to  speak  with 
her.  There — down  by  the  olive  plant!  A  woman — 
a  single  woman — come  from  far  with  tidings !  Well, 
Jean-aux-Choux  was  with  her.  Good  Jean — dear  Jean ! 

Then,  all  suddenly,  there  sprang  a  vivid  red  to  her 
cheek. 

Could  it  be?  News  of  the  Abbe  John?  Ah,  but  why 
this  woman?  Why  could  not  Jean-aux-Choux  have 
brought  the  message  himself? 

And  Claire  quickened  her  step  down  towards  the  olives 

in  the  valley. 

***** 

The  two  met,  the  girl  and  the  woman — Claire,  slender 
and  dark,  but  with  eyes  young,  and  with  colour  bright 
— Valentine  la  Nina  fuller  and  taller,  in  the  mid-most 
flower  of  a  superb  beauty.  Claire,  fresh  from  the 
kitchen,  showed  an  abounding  energy  in  every  limb. 
Sweet,  gracious,  happy,  born  to  make  others  happy,  the 
Woman  of  the  Interior  went  to  meet  her  Sister  of  the 
Exterior — of  the  life  without  a  home.  Valentine  la  Nina 


The  White  Plume  327 

had  her  plans  ready.  She  had  thought  deeply  over 
what  to  say  and  what  to  do  before  she  met  Claire  Agnew. 
She  must  look  into  the  depths  of  the  girl's  soul. 

"I  am  called  Valentine  la  Nina,"  she  said,  speaking  with 
slow  distinctness,  yet  softly ;  "and  I  have  come  from  very 
far  to  tell  you  that  I  love  the  Prince  Jean  d'Albret.  I 
am  of  his  rank,  and  I  demand  that  you  release  him  from 
any  hasty  bond  or  promise  he  may  have  made  to  you !" 

The  colour  flushed  to  the  cheek  of  Claire  Agnew,  a 
deep  sustained  flood  of  crimson,  which,  standing  a 
moment  at  the  full,  ebbed  slowly  away. 

"Did  he  send  you  to  ask  me  that  question — to  make 
that  request?"  she  demanded,  her  voice  equally  low  and 
firm. 

"I  have  come  of  my  own  accord,"  Valentine  la  Nina 
answered ;  "I  speak  for  his  sake  and  for  yours.  The  re- 
lease, which  it  is  not  fitting  that  he  should  ask — I,  who 
am  a  king's  daughter,  laying  aside  my  dignity,  may  well 
require !" 

It  was  curious  that  Claire  never  questioned  the  truth 
of  these  statements.  Had  not  the  lady  come  with  Jean- 
aux-Choux?  Nevertheless,  when  she  spoke,  it  was  clearly 
and  to  the  main  issue. 

"Jean  d'Albret  has  made  me  no  promise — I  have  given 
none  to  him.  True,  I  know  that  he  loved  me.  If  he 
loves  me  no  more,  let  him  come  himself  and  tell  me  so  1" 

"He  cannot,"  said  Valentine  la  Nina ;  "he  is  in  prison. 
He  has  been  on  the  Spanish  galleys.  He  has  suffered 
much " 

"It  was  for  my  sake,  I  know — all  for  my  sake !"  cried 
Claire,  a  burst  of  gladness  triumphing  in  her  voice. 
Valentine  la  Nina  stopped  and  looked  at  her.  If  there 
had  been  only  a  light  woman's  satisfaction  in  one  more 
proof  of  her  power,  she  would  never  have  gone  on  with 


323  The  White  Plume 

what  she  came  to  do.  But  Valentine  saw  clearly,  being 
one  of  the  few  who  can  judge  their  own  sex.  She 
watched  Claire  from  under  her  long  lashes,  and  the  smile 
which  hovered  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth  was 
tender,  sweet,  and  pitiful.  Valentine  la  Nina  was  mak- 
ing up  her  mind. 

"Well,  let  us  agree  that  it  was  'for  your  sake,' "  she 
said.  "Now  it  is  your  turn  to  do  something  for  his.  He 
is  ill,  in  prison.  If  he  is  sent  back  to  the  galleys  he  will 
soon  die  of  exposure,  of  torture,  and  of  fatigue.  If  he, 
a  prince  of  the  House  of  France,  weds  with  me,  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  King  of  Spain,  there  will  be  peace.  Great 
good  will  be  done  through  all  the  world." 

"I  do  not  care — I  do  not  care!"  cried  Claire.  "Let 
him  first  come  and  tell  me  himself !" 

"But  he  cannot,  I  tell  you,"  said  the  other  quietly; 
"he  is  in  the  prison  of  Tarragona !" 

"Well,  then,  let  him  write !"  said  Claire ;  "why  does  he 
not  write?" 

Valentine  la  Nina  produced  a  piece  of  paper,  and 
handed  it  to  Claire  without  a  word.  It  was  in  John 
d'Albret's  clear,  clerkly  hand.  Claire  and  he  had  capped 
verses  too  often  together  by  the  light  of  Madame 
Granier's  pine-cones  for  any  mistake.  She  knew  it 
instantly. 

"  Whatever  this  lady  says  is  true,  and  if  you  have  any  feeling  in 
your  heart  for  your  father,  or  love  for  me,  do  as  she  bids  you  ! 

"JEAN  D'ALBRET  DE  BOURBON."    • 

Three  times  Claire  read  the  message  to  make  sure. 
Then  she  spoke.  "What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?  I  am 
ready !" 

"You  will  give  this  man  up  to  me?" 

"He  never  was  mine  to  give,  but  if  he  had  been,  lie  TB 
free  to  go — because  he  wills  it !" 


The  White  Plume  329 

"I  put  my  life  in  danger  for  him  now — every  moment 
I  stay  here,"  said  Valentine  la  Nina ;  "Jean-aux-Choux 
will  tell  you  so.  Will  you  walk  to  the  gates  of  death 
with  me  to  deliver  him  whom  you  love  ?" 

"I  will,"  said  Claire,  "I  will  obey  you — that  is,  I  will 
obey  him  through  you !" 

"This  you  do  for  the  love  you  bear  t%  the  man  whom 
you  give  up  to  me  ?" 

"For  what  else?"  cried  Claire,  the  tears  starting  in 
her  eyes.  "Surely  an  honest  girl  may  love  a  man !  She 
may  be  ready  even  to  give  her  life  for  him.  But — she 
will  not  hold  him  against  his  will !" 

"Then  you  will  come  with  me  to  my  father,  the  King 
of  Spain?"  Valentine  persisted.  "Perhaps — I  do  not 
know — he  will  pardon  Jean  d' Alb  ret  at  rur  request — 
perhaps  he  will  send  us,  all  three,  to  the  fires  of  "the  In- 
quisition. That  also  I  do  not  know !" 

"And  I  do  not  care !"  cried  Claire ;  "I  will  come !" 

"For  his  sake  alone?"  queried  Valentine,  resolved  to 
test  the  girl  to  the  uttermost. 

"For  whose  else?"  cried  Claire  at  last,  exasperated; 
"not  for  yours,  I  suppose  I  Nor  yet  for  mine  own !  I  have 
been  searched  for  by  your  Inquisition  bloodhoundc  before 
now.  He  saved  me  from  that  1" 

"And  I — all  of  you !"  said  Valentine  la  Nina  to  herself. 
"But  the  price  is  somewhat  heavy !" 

Nevertheless,  she  had  found  Claire  worthy. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

KING  AND  KING'S  DAUGHTER 

UPON  the  high,  black,  slaty  ledges  of  the  Sierra  of 
Guadarrama,  winter  descends  early.  Indeed,  Pefialara, 
looking  down  on  the  Escorial,  keeps  his  snow-cap  all  the 
year.  From  the  Dome  of  Philip  the  King,  one  may 
see  in  mid-August  the  snow-swirls  greying  his  flanks 
and  foothills  almost  to  the  limits  of  the  convent  domain. 

It  was  now  October,  and  along  the  splendid  road  which 
joins  the  little  village  of  San  Ildefonso  to  the  Escorial, 
a  sturdy  cavalcade  of  horses  and  mules  took  its  way — 
a  carrier's  convoy  this,  a  muleteers'  troop,  not  by  any 
means  a  raffle  of  gay  cavaliers. 

"Ho,  the  Maragatos !  Out  of  the  way — the  Mara- 
gatos !"  shouted  any  that  met  them,  over  their  shoulders. 
For  that  strange  race  from  the  flat  lands  of  Astorga  has 
the  right  of  the  highway — or  rather,  of  the  high,  the  low, 
and  the  middle  way — wherever  these  exist  in  Spain.  They 
are  the  carriers  of  all  of  value  in  the  peninsula — 
assurance  agents  rather — stout-built  men,  curiously  ar- 
rayed in  leathern  jerkins,  belted  broadly  about  the 
middle,  and  wearing  white  linen  bragas — a  sort  of  cross 
between  "breeks"  and  "kilt,"  coming  a  little  above  the 
knee.  Even  bandits  think  twice  before  meddling  with 
one  of  these  affiliated  Maragatos.  For  the  whole  bees' 
byke  of  them  would  hunt  down  the  robber  band.  The 
King's  troops  let  them  alone.  The  Maragatos  have 
always  had  the  favour  of  kings,  and  as  often  as  not  carry 
the  King's  own  goods  from  port  to  capital  far  more 


The  White  Plume  331 

safely  than  his  own  troopers.  Only  they  do  not  hurry. 
They  do  not  often  ride  their  horses,  which  carry — carry 
- — only  carry,  while  their  masters  stride  alongside,  with 
quarterstaff,  a  two-foot  spring-knife,  and  a  pair  of 
holster-pistols  all  ready  primed  lor  any  emergency. 

But  in  the  midst  of  this  particular  cavalcade  were  two 
women  riding  upon  mules.  They  were  dressed,  so  far  as 
the  eye  of  the  passer-by  could  observe,  in  the  costume 
of  all  the  Maragatas — dresses  square-cut  in  the  bodice, 
with  chains  and  half -moons  of  silver  tinkling  on  neck 
and  forehead,  while  a  long  petticoat,  padded  in  small 
diamond  squares,  fell  to  the  points  of  their  red  Cordovan 
shoes.  These  Maragatas  sat  sideways  on  their  mules  and 
were  completely  silent. 

It  was  not  a  warlike  party  to  look  at.  Nevertheless, 
gay  young  cavaliers  of  the  capital  on  duty  at  La  Gran j  a, 
who  might  have  sought  adventure  had  the  ladies  been 
protected  only  by  guards  in  mail  and  plume,  drew  aside 
and  whispered  behind  their  hands  as  the  Maragatas  went 

by. 

Now  these  women  were  probably  the  two  fairest  in 
Spain  at  that  moment — being  by  denomination  Claire 
Agnew  and  Valentine  la  Nina.  In  the  rear  a  huge, 
vaguely  misshapen  giant  in  shepherd's  dress — fleece-coat 
and  cap  of  wolf -skin,  with  the  ears  sticl^'ng  out  quaintly 
on  either  si^e — herded  the  entire  party.  Ha  seemed  to 
be  assuring  himself  that  it  was  not  followed  or  spied 
upon. 

Beneath  them,  in  the  grey  of  the  mist,  as  they  turned 
a  corner  of  th  blue-black  Sierra,  there  suddenly  loomed 
up  the  sno^'-sprinkled  roofs  of  a  vast  building — palace, 
monastery,  tomb — what  not.  It  was  the  Escorial,  built 
by  Philip  of  Spain  to  commemorate  the  famous  victory 
of  St.  Quentain,  and  completed  just  in  time  to  receive, 


332  The  White  Plume 

as  a  cold-water  baptism,  the  news  of  the  defeat  of  his 
Great  Armada. 

The  pile  of  the  Escorial  seemed  too  huge  to  be  wrought 
by  man — a  part  of  the  mountain  rather,  hewn  by  giant 
hands  into  domes  and  doors  and  fantastic  pinnacles.  In- 
deed, the  grey  snow-showers,  mere  scufflings  of  sleet  and 
hail,  drifting  low  and  poncbrous,  treated  it  as  part 
of  the  Sierra,  one  moment  whitening  it — then,  the  sun 
coming  out  with  Spanish  fierceness  for  a  few  minutes, 
lo !  vast  roofs  of  blue  slate  would  show  through,  glisten- 
ing like  polished  steel. 

And  a  king  dwelt  there — not  discrowned,  but  still  the 
mightiest  on  the  earth.  In  spite  of  his  defeats,  in  spite 
of  his  solitude,  his  broken  purposes,  his  doubtful  future, 
his  empty  exchequer,  his  ruined  health,  and  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death  opening  before  him,  there  was 
nothing  on  earth — not  pope  nor  prelate,  not  unscrupu- 
lous queen  nor  victorious  fleet,  not  even  the  tempests 
which  had  blown  his  great  Armada  upon  the  inhospitable 
rocks  of  Ireland — that  could  subdue  his  stubborn  will. 
He  warred  for  Holy  Church  against  the  Pope.  He 
claimed  the  throne  of  France  from  the  son  of  Saint 
Louis.  Once  King  of  England,  he  held  the  title  to  the 
last,  and  in  defence  of  it  broke  his  power  against  the 
oaken  bulwarks  of  that  stiff-necked  isle. 

In  his  youth  a  man  of  as  many  marriages,  secret  and 
open,  as  Henry  VIII.  himself,  he  had  been  compelled  to 
imprison  and  perhaps  to  suppress  his  son  Don  Carlos. 
The  English  ambassadors  found  him  a  man  of  domestic 
virtues.  Yet  the  sole  daughter  who  cherished  him  he 
sacrificed  in  a  moment  to  his  dynastic  projects.  And 
the  other?  Well,  there  is  something  to  be  said  concern- 
ing that  other. 

Philip  II.  dwelt  in  the  Escorial  as  in  a  fenced  city. 


The  White  Plume  333 

But  Valentine  la  Nina  had  a  master-lcey  to  unlock  all 
doors.  The  n  xt  morning  very  early — for  the  King  rose 
and  donned  his  monk's  robe  in  the  twilight,  stealing 
to  his  place  in  the  stalls  like  any  of  his  Jeronomite  fel- 
lows— the  two  found  their  way  along  the  vast  corridors 
to  the  tiny  royal  chambers,  bare  of  comfort  as  monastic 
cells,  but  loaded  with  petitions,  reports,  and  letters  from 
the  four  corners  of  the  earth. 

"Tell  the  King  that  Valentine  la  Nina,  Countess  of 
Astorga,  would  see  him !" 

And  at  that  word  the  royal  confessor,  who  hf>d  come 
to  interview  them,  grew  suddenly  ashen  pale  in  th?  scant 
light  of  a  covered  morning,  as  if  the  granite  of  the 
court  in  which  they  stood  had  been  reflected  in  his  face. 

He  made  a  low  reverence  and  withdrew  without  a 
word. 

At  last  the  two  girls  were  at  the  door  of  the  King's 
chamber — a  closet  rather  than  a  room.  Philip  was  seated 
at  his  desk,  his  gouty  foot  on  the  eternal  leg-rest,  a 
ghastly  picture  of  St.  Lawrence  over  his  head,  and  a 
great  crucifix  in  ivory  and  silver  nailed  upon  the  wall, 
just  where  the  King's  eyes  would  rest  upon  it  each  time 
he  lifted  his  head. 

Claire  took  in  the  outward  appearance  of  the  mighty 
monarch  who  had  been  but  a  name  to  her  up  to  this 
moment.  He  looked  not  at  all  like  the  "Demon  of  the 
South"  of  her  imagination. 

A  little  fair  man,  in  appearance  all  a  Flamand  of  the 
very  race  he  despised,  a  Flamand  of  the  Flamands.  His 
blue  eyes  were  already  rheumy  and  filmed  with  age,  and 
when  he  wished  to  see  anything  very  clearly  he  had  a 
trick  of  covering  the  right  eye  with  his  hand,  thrusting 
his  head  forward,  and  peering  short-sightedly  with  the 
other.  His  hair,  though  white,  retained  some  of  the 


334  The  White  Plume 

saffron  bloom  which  once  had  marked  him  in  a  crowd 
as  the  white  panache  served  the  Bearnais.  His  beard, 
dirty  white  also,  was  straggling  and  tufted,  as  if  in  secret 
hours  of  sorrow  it  had  been  plucked  out,  Oriental  fashion, 
by  the  roots. 

"My  father,"  said  Valentine  la  Nina,  looking  at  him 
straight  and  fearlessly,  "I  have  come  to  bid  you  a  good 
morning.  My  uncle  of  Astorga  would  have  come  too, 
but  he  prays  in  his  canon's  stall  in  the  cathedral  of  Leon 
for  his  near  and  dear  'parent,'  Your  Majesty." 

The  King  rose  slowly  from  his  chair.  His  glabrous 
face  showed  no  emotion. 

"Aid  me,  my  daughter,"  he  said ;  "I  would  look  in  your 
face." 

As  he  rose,  his  short-sighted  eyes  caught  the  dim 
silhouette  of  Claire  standing  behind.  All  a-tremble  from 
head  to  foot,  he  stopped  short  in  what  he  was  about  to 
say. 

"And  who  may  that  be?"  he  demanded,  in  the  thick, 
half-articulate  mumble  which  so  many  ambassadors  found 
a  difficulty  in  understanding. 

"A  maid  of  Scotland,  for  whom  I  have  come  to  ask  a 
favour,"  answered  Valentine  la  Nina. 

"Ah,"  said  the  King,  as  one  who  all  his  life  had 
had  knowledge  of  such  requests.  But  without  fur- 
ther question  he  took  Valentine  la  Nina  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  to  the  window,  so  that  the  grey 
light,  half -reflected  from  the  clay-muddy  sky,  and  half 
from  the  snowy  courtyard,  might  strike  directly  upon 
her  face. 

"Isabel  Osorio's  daughter — yes!"  he  said  very  low, 
"herself  indeed !" 

"The  lawful  daughter  of  your  lawful  wife,"  said  the 
girl;  "also  an  obedient  daughter,  for  I  have  done  ever 


The  White  Plume  835 

what  you  wished  me — save  only  in  one  thing.  And 
that — that — I  am  now  ready  to  do,  on  one  condition." 

"Ah,"  said  the  King  again,  pulling  at  his  beard. 
"Now  aid  me  to  sit  down  again,  my  daughter.  We  will 
talk." 

"Aye,"  the  girl  answered,  "we  will  talk — you  and  I. 
You  and  I  have  not  talked  much  in  my  life.  I  have  al- 
ways obeyed — you — my  uncle  of  Astorga — Mariana  of 
the  Gesu.  For  that  reason  I  am  alive — I  am  free — there 
is  still  a  place  for  me  in  the  world.  But  I  know — you 
have  told  me — Isabel  Osorio's  brother  himself  has  told 
me — that  I  too  must  sacrifice  myself  for  your  other  and 
younger  children,  the  sons  and  daughters  of  princesses. 
You  have  often  asked  me — indeed  bidden  me — to  enter  a 
nunnery.  The  Jesuit?  have  made  me  great  promises. 
For  what?  That  I  might  leave  the  way  clear  for  others 
— I,  the  King's  eldest-born — I,  whom  you  dare  not  deny 
of  blood  as  good  as  your  own,  a  daughter  of  the  Osorio 
who  fought  at  Clavijo  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Santiago 
himself!" 

"I  do  not  deny,"  said  the  King  softly,  "you  have  done 
a  good  work.  But  the  Faith  hath  need  of  you.  To  it 
you  consecrate  your  mother's  beauty  as  I  have  conse- 
crated my  life " 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "but  first  you  lived  your  life — 
you  did  not  yield  it  up  on  the  threshold — unlived." 

Silently  Philip  crossed  himself,  raising  his  thick  swollen 
fingers  from  the  rosary  which  hung  about  his  neck  as 
low  as  his  waist. 

"Then  why  have  you  come,"  he  said,  again  resuming 
the  steady  fingering  of  his  beads,  "when  you  have  not 
thought  it  fitting  to  obey,  save  upon  condition?  One 
does  not  play  the  merchant  with  one's  father." 

"I  have  been  too  young — yes,"  she  broke  out,  her  voice 


336  The  White  Plume 

hurrying  in  fear  of  interruption — "too  like  my  mother 
— ah,  even  you  cannot  reproach  me  with  that ! — to  bury 
myself  under  a  veil,  with  eternal  walls  shutting  me  in  on 
every  side.  I  have  served  you  well.  I  have  served  the 
Society — I  have  done  your  will,  my  father — save  only  in 
this." 

"And  now,"  said  the  King  drily,  "you  have  returned  to 
a  better  mind?" 

"I  have,"  said  Valentine,  "on  conditions !" 

"Again  I  warn  you  I  do  not  bargain,"  said  the  King. 
"My  will  is  my  will.  Refuse  or  submit.  I  make  no 
terms." 

The  girl  flashed  into  fire  at  the  word. 

"Ah,  but  you  must,"  she  cried.  "I  am  no  daughter 
of  Flanders — no  Caterina  de  Lainez  to  be  shut  up  with 
the  Ursulines  of  Brussels  against  my  will.  I  am  an 
Osorio  of  the  Osorios.  The  brother  of  my  mother  will 
protect  me.  And  behind  him  all  Astorga  and  Leon 
would  rise  to  march  upon  Madrid  if  any  harm  befell  me. 
I  bargain  because  it  is  my  right — because  I  can  stand 
between  your  children  and  their  princely  thrones — be- 
cause I  can  prove  your  marriage  no  marriage — because, 
without  my  consent  and  that  of  my  brothers  Pedro  and 
Bernardino,  you  had  never  either  been  King  of  England 
nor  left  children  to  sit  in  the  seat  of  Charles  your  father. 
But  neither  they  nor  I  have  asked  aught  save  life  from 
your  hands.  We  have  effaced  ourselves  for  the  kingdom's 
good  and  yours.  A  king  of  Spain  may  not  marry  a 
subject,  but  you  married  my  mother — your  friend's  sis- 
ter. Now  will  you  bargain  or  no  ?" 

"I  will  listen,"  said  Philip  grimly.  "Place  my  foot- 
rest  a  little  nearer  me,  my  daughter." 

The  calmness  of  the  King  immediately  reacted  on  Val- 
entine la  Nina. 


The  White  Plume  337 

"Listen,  my  father,"  she  said,  "there  are  in  your  galleys 
at  Tarragona  two  men — one  of  them  the  father  of  this 
young  Scottish  girl — the  other,  her — her  betrothed. 
Pardon  them.  Let  them  depart  from  the  kingdom " 

"Their  crime?"  interrupted  the  King. 

"They  were  delivered  over  by  the  fathers  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion," said  Valentine,  less  certainly. 

"Then  it  is  heresy,"  said  the  King.  "I  can  forgive 
anything  but  that !" 

"For  one  and  the  other,"  said  the  girl,  "their  heresy 
consists  in  good  honest  fighting,  outside  of  Your 
Majesty's  kingdom — against  the  Guisard  League.  They 
are  not  your  subjects,  and  were  found  in  your  province 
of  Roussillon  only  by  chance." 

"Ah,  in  Roussillon?"  said  Philip  thoughtfully.  And 
picking  up  a  long  pole  like  the  butt  of  a  fishing-rod  fur- 
nished with  a  pair  of  steel  nippers  like  a  finger-and-thumb 
at  the  top,  he  turned  half  round  to  an  open  cabinet  of 
many  pigeon-holes,  where  were  bundles  innumerable 
of  papers  all  arranged  and  neatly  tied.  The  pincers 
clicked  and  the  King,  with  a  smile  of  triumph  at  his 
little  piece  of  dexterity,  withdrew  half-a-dozen  folded 
sheets. 

"Yes,  I  have  heard,"  he  said,  "the  men  you  commanded 
my  Viceroy  to  remove  from  the  galleys  and  to  place  in 
Pilate's  House  at  Tarragona — a  young  Sorbonnist  whom 
once  before  you  allowed  to  escape  at  Perpignan — and  the 
Scottish  spy  Francis  Agnew." 

"My  father,"  began  Claire,  catching  the  name,  but 
only  imperfectly  understanding  the  Castilian  which  they 
were  speaking — "my  father  is : 

But  Valentine  la  Nina  stopped  her  with  an  imperious 
gesture  of  the  hand.  It  was  her  affair,  the  movement 
said. 


338  The  White  Plume 

The  King  shook  his  head  gravely  and  a  little  in- 
dulgently. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said,  "you  have  taken  too  much 
on  yourself  already.  And  my  Viceroy  in  Catalonia  is 
also  to  blame " 

"Pardon  me,"  cried  Valentine  la  Nina,  "and  listen. 
This  is  what  I  came  to  say.  There  is  in  your  city  of 
Madrid  a  convent  of  the  Carmelites,  the  same  which 
Theresa  reformed.  It  is  strictly  cloistered,  the  rule 
serene,  austere.  Those  who  enter  there  have  done  with 
life.  Give  these  two  men  their  liberty,  escort  them  to 
France,  and  I  promise  you  I  will  enter  it  of  my  own  free 
will.  I  will  take  the  Black  Veil,  and  trouble  neither  you 
nor  your  heirs  more  in  this  world." 

The  King  did  not  answer  immediately,  but  continued 
to  turn  over  the  sheaf  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"And  why,"  he  said  at  last,  "will  you  do  for  this 
maid — for  the  lives  of  these  two  men — what  no  persuasion 
of  family  or  Church  could  previously  persuade  you  to 
do?" 

Valentine  went  hastily  up  to  the  King's  side,  who, 
dwelling  in  perpetual  fear  of  assassination,  moved  a  little 
uneasily,  watching  her  hand.  But  when  she  bent  and 
whispered  softly,  none  heard  her  words  but  himself.  Yet 
they  moved  him. 

"Yes,  I  loved  her — the  wife  of  my  youth!"  he  an- 
swered aloud  (and  as  if  speaking  involuntarily)  the  whis- 
pered question. 

"And  she  loved  you  ?"  said  Valentine  la  Nina. 

"She  loved  me — yes — God  be  her  judge!"  said  the 
King.  "She  died  for  me !" 

"Then,"  continued  Valentine  la  Nina  slowly,  "you 
understand  why  for  this  young  man's  sake  I  am  willing 
to  accept  death  in  life!  I  desire  that  he  shall  wed  the 


The  White  Plume  339 

woman  he  loves — whom  he  has  chosen — who  loves  him!" 
But  under  her  breath  she  added,  "Though  not  as  I !" 

And  Valentine  la  Nina  took  the  King's  hand  in  hers, 
and  motioned  to  Claire  to  come  near  and  kiss  it. 

But  Claire,  kneeling,  kissed  that  of  Valentine  la  Nina 
instead. 

Then  for  the  first  time  in  many  years  a  tear  lay  upon 
the  cheek  of  the  King  of  Spain,  wondering  mightily  at 
itself. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 
GREAT  LOVE— AND  GREATER 

Now  this  is  the  explanation  of  these  things. 

In  his  hot  youth  Philip,  son  of  the  great  Emperor, 
had  wedded  in  secret  his  comrade's  sister,  that  comrade 
being  one  of  the  richest  and  most  ancient  nobles  of  his 
kingdom,  Osorio,  Marquis  of  Astorga.  But  by  a 
miracle  of  abnegation  Isabel  Osorio  had  stood  aside,  her 
brother  and  the  full  family  council  approving  her  act,  in 
order  that  her  husband,  and  the  father  of  her  three  chil- 
dren, should  add  Portugal,  and  afterwards  England,  to 
his  Spanish  domains. 

Therefore,  from  the  point  of  view  of  dynasty,  the 
Osorios  of  Astorga  held  the  succession  of  the  kingdom 
of  Spain  in  their  hands.  At  the  least  they  could  have 
produced  a  bloody  war,  which  would  have  rent  Spain 
from  one  end  to  the  other,  on  behalf  of  the  succession  of 
Isabel  Osorio's  children.  Therefore  it  had  been  the  main 
purpose  of  Philip  to  keep  them  all  unmarried.  The  sons, 
Pierre  and  Bernardir  ),  he  had  severally  made  priors  of 
great  Flemish  and  Italian  monasteries.  Only  Valentine 
la  Nina  he  had  never  been  able  to  dispose  of  according 
to  his  will.  Now  he  had  her  word.  No  wonder  that  the 
King  slept  more  soundly  that  night. 

After  all,  what  did  it  matter  to  him  if  a  couple  of  here- 
tics escaped — if  only  Valentine  la  Nina  were  once  safely 
cloistered  within  the  house  of  the  Carmelites  of  El  Parral  ? 
It  cannot  be  denied,  however,  that  a  thought  of  treachery 
passed  across  the  royal — oh,  so  little  royal — mind. 


The  White  Plume  341 

"Afterwards?"  he  murmured.  "But  no — that  would 
not  do.  I  must  keep  my  word — a  painful  necessity,  but 
a  necessity.  The  Osorios  of  Astorga  are  too  powerful. 
To  spite  me,  Valentine  might  return  to  the  world.  And 
the  Pope  would  be  glad  enough  to  embroil  the  succession 
of  Spain,  in  the  interests  of  the  Milanais  and  his  own 
Italian  provinces." 

After  all,  better  to  keep  his  word!  So,  satiated  with 
well-doing  and  well-intending,  the  King  said  a  prayer, 
clicked  his  beads,  and  as  he  turned  towards  the  slit  in 
his  bedroom  through  which  he  could  see  the  high  altar, 
he  thanked  God  that  he  was  not  as  other  men.  He 
could  forgive.  He  could  fulfil.  Nay,  he  would  go  him- 
self and  witness  the  ceremony  of  the  Black  Veil — to  make 
sure  that  his  daughter  really  became  the  bride  of  Holy 
Church.  And  to  this  end  he  sent  certain  orders  to  Tar- 
ragona. 

***** 

Philip  II.  had  a  natural  eye  for  artistic  effect.  He 
would,  indeed,  have  preferred  to  send  the  inconvenient 
Valentine  willy-nilly  to  a  convent.  He  would  have  de- 
lighted to  arrange  the  details  of  the  funeral  pyre  of 
these  two  dangerous  heretics,  John  d'Albret  and  Francis 
the  Scot.  It  would  have  cost  him  nothing,  even,  to  permit 
the  piquant  young  beauty  of  Claire  Agnew  to  perish  with 
the  rest. 

But  Valentine  la  Nina  had  posed  her  conditions  most 
carefully.  The  Marquis,  her  near  kinsman,  had  come 
specially  from  Leon,  with  many  gentlemen  of  the  prov- 
ince in  his  train.  For,  though  never  insisted  on,  the 
nativity  of  Valentine  was  no  secret  for  the  grandees  of 
her  own  province. 

The  chapel  of  the  Convent  of  the  Carmelites  on  the 
Parral  of  Madrid  had  been  arranged  by  Philip's  orders 


342  The  White  Plume 

for  a  great  ceremonial.  He  attended  to  the  matter  in 
person,  for  nothing  was  too  great  or  too  little  for  him. 

A  sweet  sound  of  chanting  was  heard,  and  from  be- 
hind the  tall  iron  bars  of  the  coro  the  spectators,  as  they 
assembled,  could  dimly  see  the  forms  of  the  cloistered 
nuns — of  that  Carmelite  Order, the  most  austere  in  Spain, 
no  one  of  whom  would  ever  again  look  upon  the  face  of 
man. 

There  before  an  altar,  dressed  for  the  occasion,  and  in 
presence  of  the  King,  Claire  and  John  d'Albret  stood 
hand  in  hand.  There  they  exchanged  their  vows,  with 
many  onlookers,  but  with  one  sole  maid  of  honour.  And 
when  it  was  demanded,  as  is  customary,  "Who  giveth  this 
woman?"  the  tall  figure  of  Francis  Agnew,  bent  and 
bearded,  took  his  daughter's  hand  and  placed  it  in  that 
of  Valentine,  who,  herself  arrayed  like  another  bride,  all 
in  white,  with  lace  and  veil,  stood  by  Claire's  side.  Val- 
entine la  Nina  looked  once,  a  long,  holding  look,  into  the 
eyes  of  John  d'Albret.  Then  she  took  the  hand  of  the 
bride  and  placed  it  in  his.  The  officiating  priest  said  no 
word. 

For,  indeed,  it  was  she  who  had  given  this  woman  to  this 
man — more,  too,  she  had  given  him  her  own  life. 

King  Philip  looked  on,  sternly  smiling,  from  the  stall 
which,  as  a  canon  of  Leon,  was  his  right.  Now,  however, 
he  had  laid  aside  his  monk's  dress,  and  was  arrayed 
royally,  as  became  the  first  cavalier  of  Spain.  What  the 
King  was  really  waiting  for  came  later. 

Valentine  la  Nina  retired  to  a  tiring-room  where,  the 
first  ceremonies  accomplished,  her  splendid  hair  was  cut 
close,  and  she  was  attired  in  the  white  and  brown  of  the 
Order  of  the  Carmelites.  Then  the  final  black  veil  was 
thrown  over  her  head.  She  came  forth  with  her  sponsors 
— two  cardinal  archbishops  in  the  splendid  array  of 


The  White  Plume  343 

their  rank  as  princes  of  the  Church.  The  chant  from 
the  choir  rose  high  and  clear.  Behind  the  black  bars 
the  cloistered  nuns,  their  veils  about  their  faces,  clustered 
closer.  The  wedding-party  had  drawn  back,  John  d'Al- 
bret  standing  in  their  midst,  with  Claire  on  his  arm, 
clinging  close  and  sobbing — for  the  debt  which  another 
had  paid.  The  procession  of  priests  passed  slowly  back 
down  the  aisle.  Valentine  was  left  kneeling  before 
the  altar  with  only  her  sponsors  on  either  side. 

"Sister  Maria  of  the  Renunciation!" 

The  Archbishop  of  Toledo  proclaimed  the  new  name 
of  this  latest  bride  of  Holy  Church.  Claire  whispered, 
"What  is  it?  Oh,  what  does  it  mean?  I  do  not  under- 
stand !" 

For  the  Protestant  and  foreigner  can  never  understand 
the  awfulness  of  that  sacrifice.  Even  now  it  did  not 
seem  real  to  Claire.  Surely,  oh,  surely  she  was  walking 
in  a  vain  show!  Soon  she  must  awake  from  this  dream 
and  find  Valentine  by  her  side,  as  she  had  been  for  weeks 
past. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  the  solemn  chant,  the  black  gratings 
of  iron  opened.  The  nuns  could  be  seen  kneeling  on 
either  side,  their  heads  bowed  almost  to  the  ground. 
Only  the  abbess  came  forward,  a  tall  old  woman,  grop- 
ing and  tottering,  her  bony  hand  scarcely  able  to  find 
its  way  through  the  dense  folds  of  her  veil. 

She  stretched  out  her  hand,  feeling  this  way  and  that, 
like  a  creature  of  the  dark  blinded  by  the  light.  The  two 
cardinals  delivered  the  new  sister  of  the  Order  into  her 
charge.  This  was  done  silently.  The  sound  of  Claire's 
sobs  could  be  heard  distinctly. 

But  ere  the  tall  iron  gratings  shut  together,  ere  the 
interrupted  chant  lifted  itself  leisurely  out  of  the  silence, 
ere  the  groping  hands  of  the  old  blind  abbess  could  grasp 


344  The  White  Plume 

hers,  Valentine  la  Nina  had  turned  once  more  to  look  her 
last  on  the  world  she  was  leaving. 

Her  eyes  searched  for  and  met  those  of  John  d'Albret. 
And  if  soul  ever  spoke  to  soul  these  were  the  words  they 
said  to  him,  "This  I  have  done  for  you !" 

The  huge  barred  doors  creaked  and  rasped  their  way 
back,  shutting  with  a  clank  of  jarring  iron,  not  to  be 
again  opened  till  another  sister  entered  that  living  tomb. 

Dimly  the  files  of  phantom  Carmelites  could  be  seen 
receding  farther  and  farther  towards  the  high  altar. 
The  chant  sank  to  a  whisper.  Valentine  la  Nina  was  no 
more  for  this  world. 

With  a  choking  sob  Claire  fell  into  her  husband's  arms. 

"God  make  me  worthy !"  she  whispered,  holding  very 

close. 

*  #  *  #  * 

AFTER  THE  CURTAIN 

In  the  Mas  of  the  Mountain  the  olive  logs  were  piled 
high.  The  mistral  of  November  made  rage  outside. 
But  those  who  gathered  around  were  well  content.  Claire 
sat  by  Dame  Amelie's  knee,  her  hand  in  her  father's,  her 
husband  watching  her  proudly. 

There  were  the  three  brothers,  to  all  appearance  not 
a  day  older — the  Professor  with  a  huge  Pliny  on  his 
knee,  the  miller  with  the  lines  of  farina-dust  back  again 
in  the  crow's  feet  about  his  eyes,  and  Don  Jordy,  who 
had  taken  up  the  succession  of  a  notary's  office  in  Avig- 
non, which  is  a  great  city  for  matters  and  quarrels  ecclesi- 
astical, being  Papal  territory  of  the  strictest:  he  also 
throve. 

The  three  were  telling  each  other  for  the  thousandth 
time  how  glad  they  were  to  be  free  and  bachelors.  Thus 


The  White  Plume  345 

they  had  none  to  consider  but  themselves.  Tfie  world 
was  open  and  easy  before  them.  Nothing  was  more  light 
than  the  heart  of  a  woman — nothing  heavier  than  that  of 
a  man  saddled  with  a  wife.  In  short,  the  vine  having 
been  swept  clean,  the  grapes  had  become  very,  very  sour. 

All  this  in  natural  pleasantry,  while  Dame  Amelie  inter- 
rupted them  with  her  ever-new  rejoinder. 

"They  are  slow — slow,  my  sons,"  she  murmured,  patting 
the  head  of  Claire  which  touched  her  side — "slow,  but 
good  lads.  Only — they  will  be  dead  before  they  are 
married !" 

Into  the  quietly  merry  circle  came  Jean-aux-Choux. 
He  brought  great  news. 

"The  Bearnais  has  beaten  Mayenne  and  bought  the 
others !"  he  cried.  "France  will  be  a  quiet  land  for  many 
days — no  place  for  Jean-aux-Choux.  So  I  will  hie  me 
to  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  there  seek  some  good  fight- 
ing for  the  Religion !  Will  you  come  with  me,  Francis 
Agnew,  as  in  the  days  before  the  Bartholomew?" 

But  the  worn  man  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  been  too  long  at  the  oar,  Jean-aux-Choux!" 
he  said.  "Moreover,  I  am  too  old.  When  I  see  these 
young  folk  settled  in  that  which  the  Bearnais  hath 
promised  them,  I  have  a  thought  to  win  back  and  lay  this 
tired  rickle  of  bones  in  good  Wigtonshire  mould — some- 
where within  sough  of  the  Back  Shore  of  the  Solway, 
where  the  waves  will  sing  me  to  sleep  at  nights !  Come 
back  with  me,  John  Stirling,  and  we  will  eat  oaten  cakes 
and  tell  old  tales !" 

"Not  I,"  cried  Jean-aux-Choux.  "I  go  where  the  fight- 
ing is — where  the  weapon-work  is  to  be  done.  I  shall  die 
on  a  battle-field — or  on  the  scaffold.  But  on  the  shore 
of  mine  own  land  will  I  not  set  a  foot,  unless" — he 
paused  a  moment  as  if  the  more  surely  to  launch  his" 


346  The  WTiite  Plume 

phrase  of  denunciation — "unless  the  Woman-clad-in- 
Scarlet,  Mother  of  Abominations,  returns  thither  in  her 
power!  Then  and  then  alone  will  John  Stirling  (called 
Jean-aux-Choux)  tread  Scottish  earth!" 

So,  without  a  good-bye,  Jean-aux-Choux  went  out  into 
the  night  and  the  storm,  his  great  piked  staff  thrust  be- 
fore him,  and  the  firelight  from  the  sparkling  olive  roots 
gleaming  red  on  the  brass-bound  sheath  of  the  dagger 
which  had  been  wet  with  the  blood  of  Guise. 

Then  the  Professor,  looking  across  at  the  lovers,  who 
had  drawn  together  in  the  semi-obscurity,  murmured  to 
himself,  "Which  is  better — to  love  or  to  go  lonely? 
Which  is  happier — John  d'Albret — or  I?  Who  hath 
better  served  the  Lord — Valentine  the  cloistered  Car- 
melite, or  Jean-aux-Choux  the  Calvinist,  gone  forth  into 
the  world  to  fight  after  his  fashion  the  fight  of  faith  ?" 

Then  aloud  he  said,  speaking  so  suddenly  that  every 
one  in  the  comfortable  kitchen  started,  "Who  art  thou 
that  judges  another  man's  servant?  To  his  own  master 
he  standeth  or  f  alleth !" 

Without,  Jean-aux-Choux  faced  the  storm  and  was 
happy.  Within,  the  lovers  sat  hand  in  hand  in  a  great 
peace,  and  were  happy  also.  And  in  her  narrow  cell, 
who  shall  say  that  Valentine  la  Nina  had  not  also  some 
happiness  ?  She  had  given  her  life  for  another. 

THE  END 


A     000115460     8 


